The secretary hastened out of the room with all speed, and was seen next morning to look unusually pale.
Soon after this Froda recovered from his wounds; the course was again prepared as before, but crowded by a still greater number of spectators; and in the freshness of a dewy morning the two knights advanced solemnly together to the combat.
“Beloved Edwald,” said Froda, in a low voice, as they went, “take good heed to yourself, for neither this time can the victory be yours—on that rose-coloured cloud appears Aslauga.”
“It may be so,” answered Edwald, with a quiet smile; “but under the arches of that golden bower shines Hildegardis, and this time she has not been waited for.”
The knights took their places—the trumpets sounded, the course began, and Froda’s prophecy seemed to be near its fulfilment, for Edwald staggered under the stroke of his lance, so that he let go the bridle, seized the mane with both hands, and thus hardly recovered his seat, whilst his high-mettled snow-white steed bore him wildly around the lists without control. Hildegardis also seemed to shrink at this sight, but the youth at length reined-in his steed, and the second course was run.
Froda shot like lightning along the plain, and it seemed as if the success of the young duke were now hopeless; but in the shock of their meeting, the bold Danish steed reared, starting aside as if in fear; the rider staggered, his stroke passed harmless by, and both steed and knight fell clanging to the ground before the steadfast spear of Edwald, and lay motionless upon the field.
Edwald did now as Froda had done before. In knightly wise he stood still a while upon the spot, as if waiting to see whether any other adversary were there to dispute his victory; then he sprang from his steed, and flew to the assistance of his fallen friend.
He strove with all his might to release him from the weight of his horse, and presently Froda came to himself, rose on his feet, and raised up his charger also. Then he lifted up his vizor, and greeted his conqueror with a friendly smile, though his countenance was pale. The victor bowed humbly, almost timidly, and said, “You, my knight, overthrown—and by me! I understand it not.”
“It was her own will,” answered Froda, smiling. “Come now to your gentle bride.”
The multitude around shouted aloud, each lady and knight bowed low, when the aged duke pointed out to them the lovely pair, and at his bidding, the betrothed, with soft blushes, embraced each other beneath the green garlands of the golden bower.