Gerold and Liutrad, who had had in charge the building of the burg and mission-church on the Haze for the newly founded Bishopric of Osnabruk, returned to report their work complete. Neither had cause to complain of the king's praise for their good service; yet the very next day Olvir met them wandering moodily along the Rhine bank, and Gerold's face was clouded with grief.
"What is this, lad?" asked Olvir, with ready sympathy. "You grieve when all others are merry."
"All are merry, Olvir, even our lord king, and yet--and yet not half a year has passed--"
Sobs choked the young Swabian's utterance. He flung himself face down on the turf, and lay quivering.
Olvir flashed a look of inquiry at Liutrad, who shrugged his broad shoulders and muttered tersely: "The king and the witch's daughter, earl."
"It would be more fitting to say 'Count Rudulf's daughter.' But what of her and our lord king?"
"Do you not know, ring-breaker?"
"Why my question?"
"Worad says that it has been rumored for a fortnight, and now it is given out by authority, within a week our lord king weds the daughter of Rudulf."
"Weds--Fastrada!"