"I was taught the game by him whom you Rhinefolk call the Dane,--Otkar Jotuntop," said Olvir, quietly.
"Otkar--Otkar! Ha! I thought the mail-- And Otkar himself trained you?"
"I was his fosterling and blood-kin."
"Was?"
"He has gone hence."
"Heu! the North has lost a king of heroes. But he has left a bold foster-son. I ought to have known by your eye, if not by the mail; but the gold and the pretty stones threw me from the slot. Your bairn's sword--"
"Bairn's! With this blade I took vengeance on my father's slayer, and many another Dane has felt its point," rejoined Olvir, as he handed the sword to Rudulf.
The Thuringian examined closely the beautiful recurved blade, and shook his head. "This may be good steel. I have never seen its like. Yet the weapon lacks weight."
"I have known worse blades," answered Olvir; and, drawing a ring from his finger, he tossed it into the air. As it fell, he thrust out and caught the little circlet on Al-hatif's point.
Old Rudulf's green eyes widened in a look of approval.