Wulf stood, revolving in a brain but too well practised in such cases, all possible contingencies of death and horror. At last—
‘A rope and a light, Smid!’ he almost whispered.
They were brought, and Wulf, resisting all the entreaties of the younger men to allow them to go on the perilous search, lowered himself through the breach.
He was about two-thirds down, when he shook the rope, and called in a stifled voice, to those above—
‘Haul up. I have seen enough.’
Breathless with curiosity and fear, they hauled him up. He stood among them for a few moments, silent, as if stunned by the weight of some enormous woe.
‘Is he dead?’
‘Odin has taken his son home, wolves of the Goths!’ And he held out his right hand to the awe-struck ring, and burst into an agony of weeping.... A clotted tress of long fair hair lay in his palm.
It was snatched; handed from man to man.... One after another recognised the beloved golden locks. And then, to the utter astonishment of the girls who stood round, the great simple hearts, too brave to be ashamed of tears, broke out and wailed like children .... Their Amal! Their heavenly man! Odin’s own son, their joy and pride, and glory! Their ‘Kingdom of heaven,’ as his name declared him, who was all that each wished to be, and more, and yet belonged to them, bone of their bone, flesh of their flesh! Ah, it is bitter to all true human hearts to be robbed of their ideal, even though that ideal be that of a mere wild bull, and soulless gladiator....
At last Smid spoke—