And so the Valkyria had, though with as little of free will as on that day when her runaway steed carried her out of the press of the fleeing army. At the first call of the horn, Black Ymer had taken the bronze bit between his teeth and followed, and his rider’s one concern in life became—not the guiding of him—but the staying on. Before they left the first thicket her mantle was torn from her shoulders, and she was lying along his neck, now on this side, now on that, to escape the whipping twigs that lashed at her, threatening to cut out her eyes. From the thicket out into the open, where it seemed as if the wind that rushed against her would blow not only the clothes from her body but the flesh from her bones!
Far ahead, where the little valley ended and the wood began again, she caught a fleeting glimpse of the boar as it burst covert with the yelping pack at its heels and was for one instant revealed, snarling, bare-tusked, and flecked with bloody foam. Then it dived again under cover and was gone in a new direction. Canute’s horn sounded a recall, and one by one the hunters checked their onward rush and wheeled.
Black Ymer’s rider also tried to obey, but all the strength of her body was not enough to sway him by a hair’s breadth. On he shot into the thicket.
“He will have enough sense to stop when he finds out that he is alone,” was her despairing thought.
But he continued to forge ahead like a race horse,—in uneven leaps as though some sound from behind were urging him on. Suddenly, through the roaring of her ears, it broke upon her that he was not alone, that at least one horse was following. Its approaching tread was like thunder in the stillness. If it could but get ahead of her, all would be well. Her heart beat hopefully as the jar sounded nearer and nearer. When the snorting nostrils seemed at the Black One’s very flank, at the risk of her neck she turned her head.
Looking, she understood why a steed had been given her which should carry her out of Elfgiva’s reach, for the horseman who was even now stretching his gauntleted hand toward her rein was the King himself. No one followed, and the forest around them was silent as a vault. At last, he was free to speak his mind.
Under the drag of his hand, the horse came slowly to a halt and stood panting and trembling in the middle of a little dell. For a while, she could do no more than cling to the saddle-bow, sick with dizziness.
Still holding her rein, her royal guardian sat regarding her critically. “Now it seems to me that your boasting is less than before,” he said. “And you were mistaken in supposing that I would have given this animal to you if I had not known you could ride him.” When she made no reply, he shook the rein impatiently. “Is it still the horse that makes you heavy in your breathing? Or perhaps you scarcely dare to face my justice? I warn you that I shall not take it well if you begin to weep.”
A spark was drawn out of her by that. With an effort, she raised her head and shot him a glance from bright angry eyes. “No such intention have I, Lord King. Certainly I do not fear your justice. Why should I?”
“Since I have little time to spend upon your freaks, I will tell you why,” he said sternly. “Because you have betrayed one of my people for the sake of an Englishman.”