"Stay, Dame Hildegarde," he called out. "I beg you to turn back before it is too late. The storm-light is boding, and we 're already too far from hearth and roof-tree."
Hildegarde threw out her hand in a gesture of vexation very unlike her usual gentle bearing.
"Leave croaking to the ravens!" she cried. "How soon will your storm sweep upon us?"
"That I cannot say, dear dame. I know nothing of your Rhineland."
"I might guess," said Liutrad, in response to the queen's glance. "Yet why not ask Gerold? None should know better than he."
"Brother!" called Hildegarde; and when the young Swabian came circling back to her side, she pointed skywards. "It seems that our Norse hero is fearful of the storm-boding. He would have it that we wander too far afield."
"Ah, Olvir; so you still fret at the storm-light," laughed Gerold, and he cast a careless glance at the sky.
"In old Norway such a boding would bring the wind howling about our ears within an hour," rejoined Olvir.
"Here it will come with the sundown," said Gerold. "There is yet no moaning in the oak-tops."
"Enough!" cried his sister. "Rejoin the lads. We 'll fare on."