"How, Olvir?" demanded Gerold. "Would you then let the Danes escape us?"
"My word is pledged; the Danes go free. As to the war-earl, it is as it was with that traitor Hroar."
"You would trust everything to your own sword, Olvir; and yet the war-earl all but struck you down."
"In the press of the battle," answered Floki, sharply. "Here the ring-breaker will have room to avoid the Saxon's sword."
"I have given my word. See that you keep it," added Olvir, and, leaping from Zora, he advanced out into the water.
Wittikind calmly awaited the attack, leaning upon the hilt of his terrible longsword. There was no feeling visible in his bearded face, but his blue eyes were fixed upon the Northman in a vengeful look. Had it not been for the Norse wedge, the battle would have surely gone against the hated Franks before Rudulf, that werwolf Thuringian, could break the Frisians.
With a rush, Olvir passed, waist-deep, across the narrow channel, and sprang out upon the lower end of the islet. Between him and the Saxon lay a level stretch of sedge-grown sand, a dozen paces wide and twice as long. With the water still dripping from the border of his mailserk, Olvir advanced quietly upon his great enemy. Wittikind swung up his sword, and stepped forward to meet the Northman.
"Come, bairn, come!" he jeered. "We linger too long. I would make an end of the matter, and be gone."
"The gerfalcon strikes the stork!" retorted Olvir, and he ran in upon the war-earl so closely that his little steel shield clashed upon the spiked boss of the Saxon's linden-wood buckler. Down came the longsword with a vicious swirl,--a stroke that few among the greatest champions might have warded. Olvir made no attempt to meet it. Wide as was the blade's sweep, he sprang back into safety as the blow fell.
Gerold and the vikings shouted in approval of the adroit play; but the Danes laughed and called out jeeringly: "Stay a little, dogs of the Franks! Wait till the hero's blood warms!"