Farther along the eastern bank, where Thorkel the Tall stood beside Ulf Jarl
and Eric of Norway, there was not even a groan. The first rift came in the
puzzled clouds of Eric's face. "Here is the first happening that makes me
hope!" he said. "If he has something more than his fencing accomplishment to
support him, it may be that an unfavorable outcome need not be expected."
The Tall One's brows relaxed ever so little from their snarl of worry. "The
boy has experienced good training, for all that he has at present the
appearance of a great fool. If Rothgar's warrior skill is in his arm, yet my
caution should be in his head."
Certainly there was no Berserk madness about the young Danishman; there was
hardly even seriousness. Now his blade was a fleeing will-o'-the-wisp, keeping
just out of reach of Edmund's brand with apparently no thought but of flight.
Now, when the Ironside's increasing vehemence betrayed him into an instant's
rashness, it was a humming-bird darting into a flower-cup. But it always rose
again as daintily as it had alighted.
The Danish bank was frantic with excitement. "It is the dance of the Northern
Lights!" they cried. "Thor has sent him his own sword!"
The lines of English were wild with anger. "Crush him, the hornet, the wasp l
Crush him, Edmund!" they roared.
In his exultation, the Scar-Cheek rolled himself over and over on the grass,
and wound up by thrusting his shaggy head into the lap of the red-cloaked
page.
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