When Roland burst from the thicket, the girl came running to meet him, her silken dress torn, her hair capless and dishevelled, her face blotched with earth.
"Save me! Save me, lord count!" she gasped. "In the name of your mother, do not let him harm me!"
"What is it? Who would harm you?" demanded Roland, in amazement.
But the girl flung herself on the ground before him, sobbing and moaning, and for a while it seemed as though she could not speak. The sight of her at his feet stirred to the depths all the love and pity of the Frank's heart. He stooped and sought to lift her; but she shrank from his touch, and hid her face in her hands.
"Leave me!" she moaned. "I had forgotten; not to you can I look to avenge my wrong."
"Wrong!" he repeated, and his blue eyes flared. "By my sword, I swear, daughter of Rudulf, I will avenge your wrong. Name the man."
Fastrada ceased her sobbing, and half raised herself. With one hand still across her face, she whispered brokenly: "He sought to-- Ah, I cannot name it! but you came, and he fled. He is--he was the man I loved--I trusted."
"Olvir!--my brother?" cried Roland, and he staggered as though struck. For a moment he stood, white and rigid, in an agony of doubt. But Fastrada's keen wits were sharpened by hate.
"O my hero! my dark-eyed hero!" she moaned. "Why should you wrong your betrothed? Why seek to harm the maiden who loved you so?"
"Where did he go?" gasped Roland. A terrible anger had seized upon him. His face was crimson with rage, his eyes bloodshot. Even as he spoke, he drew the heavy Norse sword at his side, and when, with head averted, the girl pointed behind her, he rushed away like a berserk in the fury.