"Holy Mother!" gasped Hardrat. "Your spell has roused the werwolves from their lairs!"
Fastrada only smiled, and lengthened her stroke to meet the frantic rush of her companion.
Presently a bend of the river brought the wind into a more favorable quarter, and the couple raced homeward up the ice-street yet more swiftly than they had come. For a while they could hear howls in the forest depths; but as the leagues melted away beneath their skate-strokes, the dreadful sounds died out in the distance.
Still Hardrat kept on, spurred by mad terror; nor would he slacken the pace until they swept into full view of the viking settlement. At sight of the steep-roofed buildings and the shouting merrymakers in the meadows beyond, he uttered a hoarse cry, and ceased his frantic strokes. Borne on by his momentum, he glided forward until opposite the viking hall. Then, utterly spent, he sank down upon the ice, wheezing as though he would choke.
Fastrada circled about and came to a stand beside the over-wearied man, eying him with cold indifference. When he had gained breath a little and could listen, she bent forward and said significantly: "Let there be no talk of this skating, friend Hardrat."
"Trust me for that, witch-daughter! I 'll drown the memory at the cask's bottom!"
"It is well that your tongue does not wag with the wine. Here's gold for your wassail-fee," replied Fastrada, and, flinging a coin to him, she glided on up the river.
CHAPTER IX
Unto all bale
And all hate whetted.