"How is the little vala?" he asked.
"Very well, Lord Olvir. Is it not joyous to be on our way to the crest of those mighty fells? But I forget. They tell me I should not speak with you. Are you so very wicked, Lord Olvir?"
The Northman turned like a panther suddenly attacked, and cast at Fastrada a glance of such terrible anger that all her hate could not withstand its menace. But as she shrank from him, Olvir burst into a laugh of careless scorn.
"This is a wicked world, little cloister-dove," he said. "Yet be assured,--you can trust your heathen friends, though I cannot say as much for those who call themselves followers of the White Christ."
"I'm glad, Lord Olvir! I could hardly believe you'd harm me. Of my dear vikings I had no fear at all, though some mock at them as heathen. If only they were not! Yet they are very good to me, and I love them all."
"Even me!" suggested Olvir, and, with a boyish laugh, he tossed a small ring into the girl's lap. "You shall be my may."
"But I 've no ring to give in turn," she replied seriously.
"A lock of your hair will be as welcome."
Rothada took the dagger which he held out, and cut a thick tress from her chestnut hair.
"Braid it," said Olvir; and the girl obediently plaited the tress in a broad strand. Olvir took the gift solemnly, and, winding it twice about his neck, over the gold collar of his mail, secured the ends together with a double clasp.