"You 're mad!--mad! What will the king say? There 'll be no bounds to his anger! We must tell him nothing of this."
"The king shall know all," replied Olvir, and he waded on across to his waiting band.
When, late in the afternoon,--well fed from the loot of a farmstede, but very weary,--the Northmen came dragging back across the borders of the battlefield, their earl commanded them to make camp and gather in their dead and wounded. He himself rode on with Gerold, over the Haze and into the Frankish camp. The Swabian's face was clouded with fear for his friend; but Olvir went to the meeting, calm almost to indifference.
As they approached the royal pavilion, before which a group of war-counts were gathered about the king, Olvir was astonished to perceive in their midst the kindly face of Abbot Fulrad. He saw the old councillor nod and smile at him, and then the high war-counts, of whom only Rudulf was missing, rushed to greet him and Gerold. All others than Amalwin were fairly drunken with the wine of victory.
"Hail, heroes!" shouted Worad. "What tidings of the beaten wolves? We were too far spent to follow for long, but your iron vikings--"
"Would that we had stopped as well," replied Gerold, moodily.
"How then?" demanded Karl, rising from a heap of furs. "Did the rebels turn and beat you off? Where is Rudulf?"
"Each went his own way, lord king," replied Olvir, quietly. "We followed the Danes--"
"And they outran you?"
"No, lord king; we overtook them, and I fought with Wittikind."