In her upturned face, Valkyria’s honor fought with woman’s pity. Yet though she took the brand away, she did not rise; the woman in her pleaded as before a lawman.
“Death is too hard an atonement for a mistake. Forfeit your post, your hopes of fame, but not your life. I admit that you must pay some fine,—but not your life!” Again she stretched forth the burning wood, desperately, this time, as one who dreads interference.
Strong as a hand, his voice overtook her. “No. I should get the greatest shame.”
The purpose failed in her face before her arm yielded; but at last she rose and cast the brand from her, and stood with hands pressed hard upon her breast.
He had seen in his visions that she would be true to a friend, but he saw now for the first time that she could suffer for one. His love fed on her distress, even while he hastened to reassure her.
“Let it not worry you a jot, sunbright maiden. No likelihood at all is there that I shall come to harm. As I know the temper of my sword, I know the trustworthiness of the men I am leaning on.”
She took her hands from her bosom to wring them. “How can you be certain of that? Your mind is shapen altogether like a dream-spinner’s, that believes good of every one—of savages whom others hold no better than beasts—of Helvin, whom every one else thinks—Ah!” A sudden thought seemed to arrest her. “Now is that likely? That Helvin would be so foolish as to let them dance when he knows what lies upon it for you? As easily believe that he wishes your death! I must find out what is happening now.” Heedless of her trailing skirts, she was gone over stubble and stone, her step more light and free than the tread of Odin’s shield-maidens in the high halls of his chosen, as she climbed farther up the hill to a ledge of rock which had pushed through the soil and risen in a watch-tower.
When he could no longer catch any gleam of her glowing robes, the song-maker stood with his head leaning back against the tree as if his hope would mount to the sky. He wandered among singing stars until his attention was gradually drawn earthward by a stealthy crackling of the brush on his left.
Between the interlacing twigs, he made out presently a patch of such blue fabric as Thorgrim’s son’s cloak was fashioned of; but it did not seem reasonable to him that the French One should have strayed so far from the scene of excitement. He could not understand it until Olaf glided into the open and moved towards him, an unsheathed knife glittering against his blue sleeve.
No impulse to call for help came to Randvar—that instinct his life of solitude had blunted—but he put forth all his strength against his bonds, swelling out his chest, hardening the sinews of his limbs, until the thongs that withstood him were as iron sawing the flesh. When he found that they would not yield, he became as motionless as the tree behind him; his mouth twisted sardonically as he wondered in what way Erna’s proving of his heart against steel was going to serve him now.