Seeing that there was no danger of immediate attack, the Northman lowered his shield and looked about with keen glances at the slaughtered Franks and Danes.
"Thor!" he cried, "these Rhinemen fought well. Would that I had led the heroes! But what's this?--a Frank yet alive, and beside him a child-maid!"
Now entirely heedless of the Danish sea-king, the Northman advanced to stare at the forlorn survivors of Hroar's attack. Had Rothada possessed her cousin's knowledge of men and customs, she would have stared back at the sea-king in bewilderment. The haughty face which so coldly confronted her was dark and oval, with arched nose, lofty brow, and black eyes of intense brightness,--features part Arab, part Greek in character, but in no respect Norse. Yet the young chief's hair proved quite as fully that his leadership must be founded on kingly Norse blood. It was of silky fineness and curled down beneath his helmet rim in locks like burnished red gold. His dress also was that of a king's son. The cloak of sable, clasped by a jewelled brooch, was lined with cloth of gold, while money-rings coiled their yellow spirals around the ring-mail sleeves which extended to his wrists.
Abashed by the extreme brightness of the sea-king's gaze, Rothada lowered her admiring eyes to the splendid recurved sword which swung at his belt. Roland could have told her that the weapon was a sword of the Saracen folk,--a Damascus blade, which would bend to the hilt without snapping and, like the Wrath of Sigurd, cut alike through iron bars and floating wool. With the peace-thongs knotted, even that far-famed blade of Regin's forging could not have compared with this magnificent weapon, whose sheath sparkled with gems, and upon whose pommel blazed the splendor of a priceless ruby.
The glint of gold and jewels recalled to Rothada's mind her own high rank, and gave her courage to glance up again. At sight of the milder light in the dark eyes of the sea-king, she raised her arms to him appealingly.
"Bright count of the sea!" she cried, "the dear Christ has sent you to save us. The cruel Dane's knife shall not harm my kinsman!"
The Northman glanced down at the wounded Frank.
"Who is this warrior?" he demanded.
"My kinsman, Count Roland. He is a high lord of King Karl, my father--"
"Your father,--the Frank king!" cried the Northman, and his eyes flashed a look at the girl that made her tremble. But again their keenness softened, and he pointed to her bosom.