Till the walls rang again:
"Good luck
To your hands and swords
That have felled
The goodly prince!"
LAY OF SIGURD.
Midway down the valley of the Little Nive the warriors of the Frankish host lay at ease about their fires, while across the camp fell the shadow of the early mountain twilight. All alike were merry; for now the rugged fells were passed; the sun-scorched Saracen Land lay behind. In the morning the great train of plunder-laden carts and wains would be allotted, and each folk-levy would journey home by its own way, to enjoy the war-loot.
Not the least merry in the host were the king's "men," gathered about the royal pavilion. Messengers had come from Casseneuil with confirmation of the queen's good health, and the welcome tidings that old Rudulf, the Grey Wolf, had come leaping out of the Sorb Mark in the nick of time, to save Fulda from the ravaging Saxons. With Teutoric, Count of the Frisian Mark, sweeping across Westphalia toward Paderborn, and Gerold and Worad making for the harried Rhinegau by forced marches through Austrasia, none might doubt that the wolves of Odin would soon be fleeing back to their forests with aching teeth.
In celebration of the fair tidings, Karl had relaxed his usual abstemiousness, and was drinking freely with his lords at the door of his tent. All about the royal seat the Franks stood laughing and jesting. The king himself sat smiling in careless amusement at one of the gay groups where Rothada and Liutrad played at tag with the pages about Abbot Fulrad.
But back in the dark recess of the pavilion was another group, whose members gulped their wine from shaking goblets, and peered out at the wassailers with little merriment in their looks. Crouched in the corner behind the others was Kosru, the Magian leech, muttering plaintive invocations to his sun-god.