"My murdered father!" said the king. "Rememberest thou not the hour they lifted the lid from his coffin in Viborg cathedral, and laid the sacrament on his bloody breast? It was then I bade him my last farewell. What I vowed to him was heard only by the all-knowing God; but assuredly I will either keep that vow, or lose my life."
"At that time you were, as I was, a minor, my liege. If your vow to the dead was other than a pious and Christian vow, you ought not now, as a knight and sovereign, to keep it."
Eric was silent. The moon shone full on his noble form, and as he sat calm and erect on his fiery steed, with the white plume in his hat, and the purple mantle over his shoulder, he almost resembled the chivalrous St. George, about to strike his lance into the dragon's throat. His manly countenance was pale, and expressive of lofty indignation. "That I vowed to the dead I must perform," he said, after a thoughtful pause. "A wise monarch should disperse the ungodly."
As the king uttered these words an arrow whistled past his breast, and stuck in Drost Aagé's mantle.
"Murderers! traitors!" shouted the king, drawing his sword, while he reined in with difficulty his restless steed. Aagé rushed with his drawn sword to that side of the king whence the arrow was sped; the three other knights rode up in alarm. "An arrow! robbers! traitors!" was echoed from mouth to mouth. They looked around on all sides of the moon-lit road, but no living being was to be seen.
"Accursed traitors!" shouted Marsk Oluffsen, and dashed in suddenly among the bushes on the left side of the road, where he had perceived some white object moving. A shriek was heard, apparently from a female voice, and the Marsk's horse started aside. At the same moment two young maidens, in the dress of peasant girls, with long plaits of fair hair hanging low over their shoulders, ran, hand in hand, across the road, while a man of almost giant stature, in the dress of a Jutland peasant, with a large broad sword in his hand, sprang forward, and placed himself between the Marsk and the fugitives.
"Keep ye to me!" shouted the man. "It was I--it was Mads Jyde who shot. I mean not to show a pair of clean heels: let the maidens flee, they have done no ill, but I am the man who dares tilt with ye all." So saying, he brandished his sword wildly around, and wounded the Marsk's horse on the muzzle. The animal reared and snorted.
"Yield thee!" shouted Oluffsen, vainly aiming to strike his daring and gigantic foe; "Yield thee captive, or thou diest!"
On hearing this affray, the king would instantly have hastened to the spot, where he saw swords glittering among the bushes in the moonshine; but Aagé and the Swedish knight sought to detain him, while Count Henrik immediately surrounded the copse with the huntsmen, and dispatched a party of them after the fugitives. The Marsk had sprung from his intractable steed, "Cast thy sword from thee, stupid devil! Seest thou not thou art caught?" shouted he to the tall Jutlander.
"By St. Michael will I not," retorted the man. "None shall take Marsk Stig's squire alive; keep but your ground, Sir Knight, and thou shalt feel what Mads Jyde is worth." He now rushed frantically upon the Marsk, but the warlike chief was his superior in swordsmanship, and after a short but desperate fight the Jutlander fell, with his skull cloven, to the ground. He half-raised himself again, and tried to lift both his hands to his wounded head. "It was for thee, little Margaret," he gasped forth; "let but my master's children flee, and you are free to----" More he was unable to utter; his hands dropped from his head, and he fell back lifeless on the ground.