"
"You would think that great luck if you knew the kind of thoughts that have
been in my mind," she muttered. But the son of Lodbrok was already leading his
men down the hillside toward the point where the silken banner mocked at the
wattled walls.
Under the thatched roof of the hut, a still more striking contrast awaited the
eyes of those who entered. With a milking-stool for his table and the
shepherd's rude bunk for a throne, the young King of the Danes was bending in
scowling meditation over an open scroll. Against the mud-plastered walls, the
crimson splendor of his cloak and the glitter of his gold embroideries gave
him the look of a tropical bird in an osier cage; while the fiery beauty of
his face shone like a star in the dusk of the windowless cell. Days in the
saddle and nights in the council had pared away every superfluous curve from
cheek and chin, until there was not one line left that did not tell of
impatient energy; and every spark of his burning soul seemed centred in his
brilliant eyes. At the sight of him, the girl's heart started and shook like a
harp-string under the touch of the master; and Rothgar, the stolid, the stern,
who had come to upbraid, bowed reverently as he grasped the hand his leader
stretched out.
"King, I would not have kept away had I guessed that my sword would be useful
to you.
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