A moment her high pride wavered, her beautiful mouth seeming to struggle against tenderness. Coming up to him, she touched her fingers lightly to his rent sleeves, his torn collar, the furrow between his dark brows.
“It is seen that Helvin went even further, after Olaf left! Do you think that his being my brother holds me back from hating him?”
Two emotions the song-maker suddenly knew,—relief that the whole truth was still unknown to her, and a desire to delay those caressing fingers. Capturing them, he held them against his cheek while he asked her what had been said to make her think the Jarl was behaving badly towards him.
At that, her mouth surrendered to indignation.
“Enough was said—and more! I liked it well to have Olaf fetch such news,—Olaf, whom I cast off in your favor! And he brought it around so artfully that I could not stop him until it was out. He said that because you had lingered that little while in the lane, Helvin dared to upbraid you, to threaten you—Now, I will not put it into words! He said that the Jarl spoke to you as a man dare not speak to his thrall, lest the slave turn,—and that you did not turn!” She plucked her hands from his hold, drew herself away from him. “He said that you took it submissively—that when he came away, you were on your knees!”
No longer was she pearl-pale, but crimson with the blood of her scourged pride. An instant her passion reacted on him, so that his face reflected her flush. He muttered that Thorgrim’s son went heavily into debt for a creature that had only one life with which to pay. Then the emotion passed, too slight really to stir his heaviness.
“Yes, I submitted to him,—” he said, “as a well man puts up with the fretfulness of a sick one. Would you have a whole man contend against a cripple? For that is what Helvin is when he speaks temper-trying words, a man crippled in his mind. What difference does it make? since you must know that cowardice could have nothing to do with my behavior. I can think of much pleasanter things to speak of.”
Again a certain wistfulness came into his eyes, and he drew nearer to her.
“Let me feel that I have a peace land in your heart, though all other ports are war-bound. If I were in a death-swoon, the sound of your voice would trickle into my ears like cordial and spread healing through me. Give me of its balm now—of your smile—your love.”
Another step he made towards her—then stopped short. For it was not as a minister of healing she faced him, but as a Valkyria of battle, armored in pride. Like spears she threw her words at him.