But notwithstanding the presence of king and court, the solemn harmony of the Gregorian chants, and the impressiveness of the ceremony as conducted by the venerable Fulrad, there were two onlookers present who stood throughout the mass unbending and irreverent.
"By the hair of Sif, ring-breaker," muttered Floki, in the midst, "here is enough of gold to stock a dozen godi-houses."
"It is nothing to the hoard in the temple of the godi of Rome. That is all but sheathed with gold, wrung by Holy Church from the sweat and blood of slaves! But I will not give way to bitterness. This is a merry day to the Christian folk; we also will be light of heart. Look how the beams sparkle among the gem-stones. I choose those before your dull gold. See their bright hues,--blue and green and purple,--ay! and red as the life-blood of white biorn gushing upon the snow."
"I have eyes, son of Thorbiorn. There is one flagon which alone is worth a king's wergild,--the jewelled cup that the Godi Fulrad holds aloft. By Thor! that is a wassail-bowl worth the having. Not Otkar himself could have drained it at a draught."
"True, old Crane; and it may hold even more than our eyes show us. Tell me,--you have now dwelt many seasons in Frank Land,--what is your thought of the White Christ?"
Floki scratched his long nose, and glanced shrewdly about the chapel before replying.
"You ask a hard riddle, earl," he muttered. "I should answer that He is Odin and Balder--and more--in One. Yet why should I bend knee to Him? I have seen how His runes have drawn the temper of your keen spirit and marred your old-time joy of battle. What greater loss could befall a viking? So I will yet drink to Thor, trusting in my own craft and the sweep of my halberd."
"I will not say you are wrong," replied Olvir. "At the least, one cannot do the will of the White Christ and take joy in sword-play; that I see clearly, though these Christian priests teach otherwise. Some day I must make my choice, either to ungirt Al-hatif from my side, or to burn my Christ-runes."
"Thor!" croaked Floki; "it is time for a little sword-play to stir your kingly blood. With the springtime, earl, there 'll be call for your heron beak."
"How? To peck the Saxon wolves?"