"It cannot now be long. The word will soon come," growled Hardrat, who, though drinking even more immoderately than usual, was kept sober by the intense strain. The Magian edged a little nearer the thickset Thuringian.
"The word will soon come," he echoed in a trembling voice.
"And we crouch here like witless oafs," rejoined Fastrada. "Come; there's nothing to betray us but our own faces. Let us go out and make merry with the others."
"Well spoken, daughter of Rudulf! This time our great plot has failed; yet our enemy will soon have cause enough for grief. We will go out and rejoice at the tidings which shall soon blacken his merrymaking. Come. The good wine has put heart into me," answered Hardrat, and he stooped to grasp Kosru by the arm. But the Magian was palsied with terror; and while Fastrada lingered beside him, in a vain attempt to overcome his fear, Hardrat came springing back from behind the king's seat.
"Stay!" he cried. "Here comes a rider, fleeing down the valley."
"The word!" Seized with a second panic, the plotters drew back again into the depths of the tent.
A sudden hush had fallen upon the merrymakers about the king. All had turned, with paling cheeks, to gaze up the road. Down the valley a red Arab courser was racing as for life, and upon the flying beast sat a blood-stained figure which swayed and reeled in the saddle like a drunken man.
The king sprang up beside Fulrad.
"God's wounds!" he cried. "What mummery is this?"
But then from the viking camp in the rear burst out a terrible shout, and the lofty figure of Floki the Crane came rushing through the midst of the Franks.