Fastrada glanced about, frowning, at the purple-blotched face of her mate; but suddenly she seemed to slip, and a cry of pain burst from her lips. Leaning with all her weight upon one foot, she turned sharply and glided inshore, borne on by the momentum of her swift flight. Taken by surprise, Hardrat shot past for half-a-dozen strokes. Before he could circle about and rejoin the girl, she had limped part way up the snow-covered bank, to lean against a giant oak. As Hardrat scrambled after her, she met his look of concern with a rueful face.
"Satan spit the false wood-minnes!" she cried. "They 've wrought me ill,--my ankle is wrenched."
"Holy saints! and we three leagues from aid!"
"Not so; less than two. The hut--"
"--If she still lingers."
"Shelter, anyway. Yet there may be no need. Chafing and a fire might ease my hurt."
Hardrat's bloodshot eyes lighted dully.
"There are less welcome tasks than to chafe the foot of Rudulf's daughter. As to the fire, however, I carry neither flint nor tinder."
"Ah, then, yet stay! Here's the tip of my staff-spear, and for tinder, my kerchief, whose end I scorched on the coals this morning."
"A lucky chance," muttered Hardrat, and he set to gathering twigs and dry leaves from along the bank. As he bent to heap the fuel together for lighting, Fastrada crouched upon the snow, and drew from her bosom a large pouch, whose contents gave out a fetid odor. Laying the pouch openly on the snow beside her, she stared over the broad back of her companion into the depths of the leafless forest, and her face darkened with the fearful look that had terrified the Magian.