"I made you a promise once," he began, shaken.
"Oh, I hold you to it," she laughed. It was a very small and lonely laugh, torn by the wind. "You shall not kiss me against my will. But, Eodan, it is now my will."
He touched his lips to hers, with an unhurried tenderness; if they lived, there would be more than this. Tjorr said: "I make out a dust cloud to the north, disa. I think horsemen."
"Then let us go within," said Eodan.
It was dark in the hut; stones covered the smokehole, now, and the sagging door was closed behind them. They sat on the earth and waited, Phryne lying in the circle of Eodan's arm. Presently hoofs rang on the ground outside, and weapons clashed. They heard a dog bark.
"The place seems deserted," said a voice in Latin. "Maybe the fire in that hay drove its people off."
"And they left two hobbled war-horses?" snapped Flavius. "Look in and see if anyone lairs."
Tjorr planted himself by the doorway, raising his hammer. The door creaked open. Chill gray light outlined a Roman helmet and shimmered off a Roman cuirass. Tjorr struck down, and the helmet gonged. There was the noise of crunching bones. The man fell and did not move again.
"Here we are, Flavius!" cried the Alan.
Phryne loosed an arrow out the door. Someone cursed. Eodan, glimpsing horses and men, sprang to the entrance and peered out. Ten living Romans and a couple of Gauls in battle harness—a dozen men, then, against two men and a woman.... "I reckon, Eodan," said Tjorr, "you and I must each strike six blows."