"It is
murder," he snarled, "murder."
Of all the Northmen, the young King alone appeared serenely undisturbed. When
he had saluted the Ironside with royal courtesy, he met his sword as though he
were beginning a practising bout with his foster-brother. Smoothly, evenly,
without haste or fury, the blades began to sing their wordless song to the
listening banks.
After a time Borgar dared to raise his face from the grass. "Is he yet alive?"
he whispered.
The men did not seem to hear him. Humped over the earth, with starting eyes
and necks stretched to their uttermost, they were like so many boulders. Nor
did Frode's daughter seem to feel that the hand the Brass One had raised
himself upon was crushing her foot; she did not even glance toward him as she
answered: "Simpleton! Do you think the King does not know how to handle his
weapon? If only his strength--"
Her sentence was not finished, and the man next to her drew in his breath with
a great whistling rush. Canute's weapon, playing with the lightness of a
sun-beam, had evaded a stroke of the great flail and touched for an instant
the shoulder of its wielder. Had he put a pound more force into the thrust-- A
groan crept down the Danish line when the bright blade rose, as lightly as it
had fallen, and continued its butterfly dance. It consoled them a little,
however, that no cheer went up from the English,--only a low buzz that was
half of anger, half of astonishment.
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