"Well has he hoarded
his strength," he muttered. "Well has he saved it, yet--yet--"
At that moment such a roar went up from Northern throats as might well have
startled the wolf's shadow off the face of the sun; for Edmund Ironside had
retreated a third step, and the Dane's point appeared to lie at the
Englishman's heart. Then the uproar died somewhere in mid-air, for in what
seemed the very act of thrusting, Canute had leaped backward and lowered his
blade. So deep was the hush on either side the river that the whir of a bird's
wing sounded as loud as a flight of arrows. Bending forward, with strained
ears and starting eyes, the spectators saw that the Northern King was
speaking, eagerly, with now and then an impulsive gesture, while the English
King listened motionless.
"Has he got out of his wits?" the Scar-Cheek roared, fairly dancing with
impatience.
In Randalin's face a flash of memory was struggling with bewilderment. "Other
weapons than those which dwell in sheaths." Had he meant "the sword of
speech," his tongue?
With the deliberate grace which characterized his every motion, the Ironside
slid his sword back to its case, and they saw him take a slow step forward and
slowly extend his hand. Then they saw Canute spring to meet him, and their
palms touch in a long grasp.
From the English shore there went up a joyful shout of "Peace!" And a
deafening clamor rose in answer from the Danish bank.
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