"My lord king!" cried Olvir, and he sprang up to put his gratitude into words. But Karl motioned him to fetch a stool instead.
"Be seated, kinsman," he said gravely. "You owe me no thanks. It is little enough for what you have done. In a few weeks I may call you into the field again--and here I come thrusting myself in, to take from you a portion of your brief season of happiness."
"You do not take, sire, you add," replied Olvir, his face glowing. To be named as kinsman by Karl, son of Pepin,--Karl, the world-hero,--meant more to him than words could express.
Karl smiled, and turned from the happy lover to his betrothed.
"What is your word, child?" he demanded, half playfully.
Rothada raised his great hand to her lips and kissed it, as she murmured her answer: "Our Lord Christ is very good to me to give me such a father and--and--"
"Such a wooer!"
"Such a wooer!"
"God grant you fulness of joy, dear children,--wedded bliss for a lifetime such as was mine for the few brief years."
The broad chest of the speaker rose and fell with a heavy sigh, and he bent forward upon his sword-hilt, to stare out into the gathering twilight.