“I am not lying to you,” Eric lifted up his voice and wept. “Never did I lie to you in my life,—not even though I had meddled with your skin-boat and you were trimming a willow switch as you asked me about it. If you had any sense, you would guess that it had gone out of my mind that I was holding a knife. I thought I was striking you with my fist,—and for that you cannot throw blame on me for you have told me yourself that a man must be loyal to the lord he has chosen, and Olaf says the Devil gets all pages who do not fight for their masters. I thought that if I attacked you, you would turn on me, and he would get a chance to recover himself and—”
The Songsmith brought him nearer by the wrist he held, and drew down with his other hand the arm shielding the woe-begone face.
“Say that over again, Eric, while I look in your eyes.”
They were swollen eyes, and now resentful and now beseeching, but clear as blue lakes to show what lay under them. Before the explanation was half repeated, his foster-brother showed that he accepted it by drawing him into a close embrace and holding him so. Feeling the encircling arm change from a shackle to a caress, the boy subsided on the broad shoulder and wept there unrestrainedly.
“Tell them that you do not blame me, so they will not look at me the way they did. You cannot imagine how they behaved! When I met some of my best friends out of Brynhild’s house, not a maiden of them would speak to me. And old Visbur said that the forest bred traitors like acorns, and that they ought to hang like acorns on the trees; and his eyes—you could not bring before your mind how his eyes looked!”
“I wish I could not!” the song-maker muttered, and shook himself as though he were a baited bear and his memories sharp-toothed hounds. But the boy pressed harder against him.
“You must not go until you promise me your help. The guards will act in any way you say,—tell them to let me go back to the Tower. If you knew how much I want to see my mother and Snowfrid!—and Lame Farsek and the others—who look at me as if they thought well of me. I cannot bear to be looked at the other way. My heart will break if I have to see one of these hateful court-people again. Until I get to be a man, when I shall come back and kill Olaf and—Foster-brother, you are not going to refuse me?”
He abandoned vengeance to press his face coaxingly against the Songsmith’s, and try to forestall the answer he read there.
“I beg it of you! You wanted me to go back to see Erna,—and now I will do everything she asks of me. Foster-brother, listen! I will not once forget to chop the wood or fetch the water. I—Listen! If I do, she can tell you and you can—”
“What I am trying to say,” the Songsmith made himself heard at last, “is that my words would have no weight at all with the guards. Even the Jarl’s favor I dare not lean on this time—Stand still! I am not saying it to frighten you, only to show you that carefulness is necessary. The worst part of your bad fortune is past, for I have already planned it that you are to slip away to-night. Yonder is the door with the bolts drawn, and beyond the court lies an open road to the forest. Some starlight is in the court-yard, but there are also many trees; and you have learned Skraelling tricks of skulking. The night has only just passed its noon, so you are unlikely to see any one,—but a beggar snoring on the steps of the women’s house. You can avoid the sentinels at the gates by getting over the wall where the Jarl’s stable shadows it. After you are once in the road, you know what to do as well as I. Luck go with you!”