The man-at-arms regarded him admonishingly.
“Why, I think they say he is. But they say also that the one of you two who begins a fight will get outlawed.”
Randvar made no answer; his gaze had gone back to the door-curtain. If the French One should remain there after she entered, it would be a sign that his disfavor was at an end, that she had taken him back into her friendship—He broke off to watch with suspended breath.
Dashing the fox-skins aside, Mord the Grim stamped through the door; and after him Olaf backed into the room, bowing ceremoniously before the presence he was leaving. If further proof were needed that the greeting of the Jarl’s sister had not been cordial, that proof was furnished as he turned on the threshold and espied his rival watching him. Seizing his sword-hilt, regardless of Mord’s shrill expostulations, he strode towards the Songsmith.
They seemed for once to have changed places for Randvar made no more motion to attack than to evade, only stood smiling at him in unconcealed malicious enjoyment. When Thorgrim’s son was within a pace of him, he took off his fur cap and swept him a salute mockingly elaborate, then folded his arms upon his breast in the formal sign of peace.
White on purple showed the veins of Olaf’s forehead, as he came to a stand-still before the exasperating figure. Perhaps even at the price of banishment he would have purchased revenge, if his friends had not saved him from the rash bargain. To the utter disgust of the by-standers, three of the traders’ men seized upon him now and with respectful words but peremptory hands, dragged him past temptation and out of the door.
Raising a chorus of disappointment, the loungers closed again around the laughing Songsmith, scolding him, some of them, for not preferring banishment to a life of such restraint; others chaffing him for his decline in spirit; while the Skraellings became almost urgent in their desire to understand why two men should start to fight each other and stop before either was killed.
Lingering to buckle his many mantles, old Mord watched the group. When at last he was muffled for his ride, he halted on his way out to look at the jesting song-maker from under an arch of bristling brows.
“Since I see what a man you are to get friends behind you,” he said, “my wonder grows less at the boldness you showed at the treaty-making. Soon, instead of the favorite of the Jarl, you will be calling yourself the favorite of New Norway.”
Over the ring of tow manes surrounding him, Randvar gave back his look carelessly, wondering what new fuel his fiery prejudice had chanced upon. He found out when Mord had reached the door and, opening it, flung this parting shot over his shoulder.