“In time, my son,” replied his father, repeating his announcement in Gothic. “Odorik lives!”
“He lives, he will live,” repeated Marcus, reviving. “I came not away till his life was secure.”
“Is it truth?” demanded the old Goth. “Romans have slippery ways.”
Meinhard was quick to bear testimony that no man in Arvernia doubted the word of an Æmilius; but Marcus, taking a small dagger from his belt, held it out, saying—
“His son said that he would know this token.”
Odo felt it. “It is my son’s knife,” he said, still cautiously; “but it cannot speak to say how it was taken from him.”
“The old barbarian heathen,” quoth Verronax, under his breath; “he would rather lose his son than his vengeance.”
Marcus had gathered breath and memory to add, “Tell him Odorik said he would know the token of the red-breast that nested in the winged helm of Helgund.”
“I own the token,” said Odo. “My son lives. He needs no vengeance.” He turned the handle of his axe downwards, passed it to his left hand, and stretched the right to Verronax, saying, “Young man, thou art brave. There is no blood feud between us. Odo, son of Helgund, would swear friendship with you, though ye be Romans.”
“Compensation is still due according to the amount of the injury,” said the Senator scrupulously. “Is it not so, O King?”