"And I alone come from the Vascon hail. I alone live; and now-- But you, hero; you 're yet unharmed; hasten up out of the bloody pit. To the king--to the king!"
"I have fled once. I stay here till you die."
"No, Holy Mother, no! Fly, hero! You alone may bear the evil word. The Vascons turn to loot the slain,--I hear yells behind you. Fly!"
"Let them come. Fenir tear me if I leave you, living!"
"Then shall your stay be brief!" cried Anselm.
With one hand he tore loose the clasps of his hauberk; with the other he grasped his dagger. Before Olvir could cry out or grasp his arm, he had struck himself to the heart.
A groan burst from Olvir's lips as he sprang off to catch the body of the count. Gently he drew it from the saddle and stooped to the ground. But as he bent, the horses snorted in terror. Loosening his hold of the Frank, Olvir rose up just as a boulder, hurtling from the cliff, shattered upon an outjutting ledge and flew about him in a hundred fragments. He heard his courser scream, and felt himself hurled back as though struck by the axe of Otkar Jotuntop.
In a moment he was up again, the blood spurting from a terrible wound just below the collar of his mail-serk. The sharp point of a whirling rock had torn through his threefold mail, snapped the bone beneath, and laid open his chest. But for the thick strand of Rothada's hair, he would never again have risen. Though severed by the sharp-edged stone, the strand had helped to break its blow. As he rose, the loosened plait came slipping down his breast, and, half dazed, he thrust it in through the rent in his mail.
Then his eye fell upon the black courser, standing in dumb anguish. Other fragments of the fatal rock had struck down Anselm's horse and broken the Arab's foreleg. Forgetful of his own wound, Olvir sprang to the faithful beast and kissed his white-starred forehead.
"Farewell, fleet one! You have served me true. May we meet again in Paradise!" he said, and then, swift and sure, the point of Al-hatif pierced the courser's heart.