"In the end--ay, in the end; but I'm weary of waiting. Five long winters have dragged by since we first plighted troth, there in the Southland."
"I was only a child; yet see, Olvir, my collar--the tress which saved you at Roncesvalles--still lies clasped about your throat. It is not a year since my father betrothed us. We must trust in Christ and in the good-will of--of the queen."
"The witch's daughter!" replied Olvir, and his face clouded yet more. "Why did she not look up as she spoke? My mind is not at ease. Her words were so kindly; but still, it seemed to me her meaning--"
"Such doubts are unworthy of you, Olvir. Could a sister--a mother--show greater tenderness than she has shown since Hildegarde left us?"
"The bitterness of parting poisons my thought. Forgive me, dear, if I give way to doubt. Yet there is one in the court whom I can trust to watch over you. Trust Liutrad in all things. He would strike off his sword-hand to give you joy. Wait; a word more, darling. Here is my silver-hilted knife, the work of my own hands."
"What--I bear a dagger?" cried Rothada, and she shrank from the gift.
"Call it a bodkin; only, take and keep it in memory of our parting."
"As you wish, then, dear; yet it is a large bodkin to carry in my bosom, and if I sling it at my girdle, the maidens will mock me for a warrior."
"A terrible hero! Tie the sheath with ribbons, and let the silly maidens laugh."
"No; I will hang it about my neck. It shall lie upon my heart, in pledge of your love and protection. I will cherish it, dear; for it comes from my hero."