But it was Rolf’s name that the guardsmen echoed, closing in upon Rolf’s son to shake his hand and his shoulder.
“Rolf the Viking! A well-known name have you!”
“Now he was my shipmate for five years!”
“My father harried England with him—”
“A better warrior never fed the ravens!”
“Small wonder his son measured a knife against—”
“I take credit upon myself that I was the first to clap you on the shoulder!”
But between the brass helmets Rolf’s son caught a glimpse of the Jarl’s daughter, and made the discovery that in turning his low rank into a high one he had but turned the cheek of his offence. She said, when she could make herself heard:
“There seems to me to be two sides to this matter. For a churl to bear such a bold look beneath his brows would be bad enough, but I find it far worse that a man of high birth should form himself after the manner of savages. Have you no regard for your King’s blood?” Again her glance took stock of his deerskin husk and his untrimmed hair.
That she could not also take stock of the brand of temper with which the King and the Viking had bequested him, was shown by the fact that, even more than her words, her look was a challenge. In the fillip of a finger perversity possessed him, and moved him to answer: