As he made the first step, however, Canute sat up suddenly,
striking his fist upon the bunk.
"I will do it!" he said. While they stared, he rose and recommenced his
hurried pacing, his eyes keen and far away, his mouth set in grim resolve.
"Do what, King?" the son of Lodbrok ventured at last.
Canute's eyes appeared to rest upon the pair without seeing them. "Accept the
challenge," he answered absently. Then the utter horror in both faces brought
him momentarily back. "You need not look like that. I would not do it if I did
not see a good chance to win. There are other weapons than those which dwell
in sheaths."
"But if you lose?" Rothgar's harsh voice was discordant with emotion. "If you
lose?"
The King silenced him impatiently. "I do not think I shall lose; but if it be
otherwise, then Fate will rule it. I prefer to risk everything rather than to
experience more delay." Catching the bewildered page by the collar, he pushed
him toward the door. "Run, boy, with all the speed of your legs, and find
Ingimund the Swimmer and fetch him here. And you, foster-brother, if my fame
is important to you, do you betake yourself to those dumpish oafs around the
fires and try, by any means whatever, to remedy their faint-heartedness. Ask
them if they want the host across the river to think them turned into a herd
of weeping bondwomen.
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