"If only they might, little vala!" echoed Olvir. "But the best we can look for is a pitched battle, and the more terrible the slaughter, the more hope for peace to follow."
"That is a fearful saying, Olvir!"
"The truth of sword-rule. But this is no time, dearest, to fret our spirits with such thoughts. We have enough to sadden us in our parting."
"Oh, my hero! If I were not so selfish, I would seek to lighten your heart. But I sit here, heavy with sorrow, while all others are gay. See; even Fastrada has put away her brooding, and makes merry with Gerold and the pages, as once I used to do."
"She may well rejoice! War is as welcome to her as to my vikings; and no doubt she is merry that we are to be parted."
"Dear hero, you should speak evil of no one."
"True, sweetheart; I should not judge even the witch's daughter. Yet her laughter lacks the ring of that which springs from a kindly heart. Nor do I like the manner in which she looks at the king."
"Surely, Olvir, you misjudge the maiden. All during Lent she has been very kind and gentle. Look; here are the mushrooms which she told Pepin and Karl to gather for our mother."
"Loki,--a Roman dish! Yet the act was to be praised," admitted Olvir, and he stared curiously at the salver borne past by one of the pages. "I see it was not enough of honor to the ugly elf-stools that they should be gathered by a king's sons. They must be served in a golden bowl with a spoon of silver."
"Do not mock, dear. The cook is from Ravenna, and very skilled in his art. He bakes the spoon with the food, and if there should chance to be any poisonous mushroom with the others, he knows that the spoon will blacken."