"Thank God!" exclaimed Karl, and he sprang to fling his arm about the boy. "Heed me, child--my brave child! Rouse up and draw sword--the battle's not ended!"
But Pepin stared vacantly into the glowing face of his father, and pointed to the blood-reddened figures of the vikings with a foolish smile. "They that are clothed in scarlet dwell in king's houses--clothed in scarlet--scarlet and crimson," he babbled.
"Mother of God!" muttered Karl, and his eyes fell before the meaningless stare of the boy. But then Olvir sprang forward, his face pale, and his brows meeting in a stern frown.
"Here's a horse, king," he said almost harshly, "Mount, and lead us on again."
"But the lad--"
"Liutrad shall take him in charge. We can do no more for him till this scarlet play is ended."
"Scarlet play--you speak truth, Dane hawk! But see! Ho, Christ triumphs! My Grey Wolf rends his way into the midst of the fen-dwellers. They break--the host itself! Ho, sea-wolves, after me--after me, and burst the Danish shieldwall!"
With a shout that rolled out above all the wild din and uproar, the vikings closed their ranks again in wedge, and wheeled to follow their crowned leader into the thick of the withdrawing Saxons.
As yet only half beaten, the forest-wolves were giving ground with stubborn slowness, and Wittikind was seeking to swing his shieldburg around, that he might shake off the horsemen and rally the tribes in a last furious charge upon the Frankish footmen. Even yet the tide of battle might have been turned against the Franks.
But then the viking wedge crashed into the heart of the Saxon host from the one side, while from the other came sweeping a torrent of routed Frisians, old Rudulf and his grey-armored warriors raging in their midst. The yells of the fen-dwellers quavered with superstitious dread: "The werwolf!--the werwolf! Fly, Saxons!--Fenir 's free!"