"Here, sire," replied Olvir, and he thrust the gold hilt into the king's hand.
"Good! The battle--"
Floki stepped upon a slain horse, and swept the wild battlefield with his glance: "Yonder, lord king, I see Wittikind's shieldburg. The Danes have faced about, and again withstand your riders. But everywhere the Saxons give ground--even the stubborn Frisians!"
"Saint Michael! we win! Why do your wolves stand idle, Dane hawk?"
"We wait for you, lord king, and the Saxons are not minded to press upon us," replied Olvir, grimly. "Lead us now against them, king! Heya! men; lead forward Count Gerold's horse."
"The lad, also," added Floki. "How does the king's son fare?"
"Look for yourself, Crane," rejoined the viking who led forward Gerold's and Pepin's horses.
The luckless boy, who had been lashed fast in his saddle by the vikings, was crouched low over his horse's withers, and his delicate face, as he gazed vacantly about among the vikings, was white and drawn. At the pitiable sight Karl leaped up, his look dark with chagrin.
"King of Heaven!" he cried, "have I lived to see my first-born fear-stricken--my son a coward?"
"Hold, king!" broke in an old berserk, with generous boldness. "You do both yourself and the bairn a wrong. The lad's now witless. Till the luckless stone struck him down, he rode beside me, blithe of heart in the midst of the battle-din. No man in all our wedge cast a dart with truer aim. I myself saw him pierce two Saxons. He's yet witless."