They were the last words Thorer Sel spoke on earth. While they were still on his lips, the stranger cleared the table at a bound. There was a flaming of warrior-scarlet from under homespun gray, a hiss of steel, the sound of a blow—and then the whole room seemed turning scarlet, and the head of Thorer Sel rolled on the table before the king.
“Sigurd!” the girl on the cross-bench cried piercingly.
“Sigurd!” shouted young Erlingsson, leaping to his feet.
After that, it was hard to tell what any one said. Pushing forward in obedience to an awful gesture from King Olaf, guards laid hold of Sigurd Asbiornsson and hurried him from the hall, and thralls came running with towels and water and a board. While some took up what lay heavily among the reeds of the floor, others spread fresh linen, and still others removed the bespattered mantle from the king’s shoulders. Only in one thing they all acted alike—no man raised his eyes to the king’s furious face.
Of a different mettle was Erling Erlingsson. Coming back from the door through which the guards had led his friend, he came straight up to the high-seat.
“Lord,” he said, “I will pay the blood-money for your bailiff, so that my kinsman may retain life and limbs. All the rest do according to your pleasure.”
King Olaf’s voice was very low. It was his way when his rage was highest.
“Is it not a matter of death, Erling, when a man breaks the Easter peace, and breaks it in the king’s lodgings, and makes the king’s feet his execution-block? Though it may well be that it seems a small matter to you and your father!” His teeth showed through his quietness.
Erling tried his unpractised tongue at entreaty.
“The deed is ill-done, Lord, in so far as it displeases you, though otherwise done excellently well. But though it is so much against your will, yet may I not expect something for my services to you?”