“If you had but a body that hands could lay hold of—!”
The craving for combat—like fire it was fanned in him by the dry gusts. He drew breath sharply when following a narrow wood-trail brought him suddenly into the highway and face to face with Gunnar and half a dozen of the young courtmen. If they would but jostle him in their careless mood—so much as kick up the dust about him—give him any excuse whatsoever— His mouth watered at the thought of what would follow! Disappointment increased his rage when—after one look at him—they toned their familiar hails down to punctilious salutes, and picked their way around him as around a fire.
His head set low, he was standing looking after them, when another wayfarer came cantering around the bend behind him and almost rode him down. He had seized the horse by its bridle and forced it back upon its haunches before he realized that the befringed and befeathered rider in blue-and-silver was no other than his small foster-brother.
Releasing the bronze chain, he stepped aside with a smothered oath.
“You elf!” he said. “Erna’s luck will not last you long if you draw on it often in this way. Take yourself on.”
Undeniably, the elf’s first impulse was towards obedience. He had drawn in his chin and let his horse carry him by, before he remembered his new dignity and pulled rein alike on steed and inclination. Like one adjusting new garments, he thrust out his chest and stiffened his spine as he turned.
“I must ask you not to call me by familiar names as though we were still on good terms,” he said. “I find that it concerns my honor, while I am page to the noble Olaf, to stand up for my rights with point and edge.”
The Songsmith’s impulse towards laughter was strong enough to send a note beyond his unmirthful lips. Then, as the splendid personage began solemnly to clamber to the ground, he shook himself irritably.
“Eric, you are not wont to be a fool—with me—and this is a bad time to begin. Stay in your saddle and ride along.”
Either Eric’s flowery phrases felt the blight of contempt, or else no more of them had taken root under his curly hair. In silence he came on, his rosy mouth screwed up to the point of his resolve, and planted himself before his foster-brother.