How the guardsman took his leave, Randvar did not see. Dropping down upon the bench, he burst into high-keyed laughter.
“Help—against—me!” he gasped, and leaned there laughing until Helvin’s hand fell upon his shoulder and shook him with friendly severity.
“Stop! That is the end of such laughter that weeping follows it. Stop! Drink this.”
The pressure of a cup against his lip compelled obedience, and the draught brought some of his strength back to him; but the Jarl’s remained the dominating spirit.
“More of that is needed, and food in your stomach. I will be your dish-bearer for a change,” he said, and himself dropped down cross-legged on the straw beside the charger that he might pass up its contents.
Patient as the hand of a woman, his hand that had sped the missile ministered now to his friend. Now and again, over crust or bone, Randvar met in the gray eyes a brooding tenderness that tightened the muscles around his heart.
It was a relief when Helvin’s mind began to turn away to musing, drawing him over upon his elbow to lie staring into the empty cup he held, like a wizard reading fortunes in the wine-dregs. Dreamy as the note of droning bees, his voice sounded when presently he began to muse aloud.
“I only wish I could have found some excuse to give drink to Olaf.... Every moment I stood by him, I was wondering if there was not some way.... It would not have been necessary to kill him. One drop of the right herb-juice would be enough to addle his wits until he could pass for mad. Whatever he betrayed, I should have only to shrug my shoulders and tap my head. Conceive of his rage! It would have been sport for a king!”
As a dog over a sweet bone, he put out the tip of his tongue and noiselessly licked his lips. Wincing, Randvar spoke hastily:
“Jarl, this is an unprofitable mood! Recall it to your mind that Olaf knows nothing to betray.”