"Always--ever ready for use against the bearer."
Rothada put her hand to her breast, and the blue steel of the dagger gleamed in the moonlight. Olvir took the blade from her, and pressed it to his lips.
"Be true, knife of my forging!" he muttered. "There is yet one hope--if it fail, strike true; and when you pierce her heart, I will plunge Al-hatif into my breast."
"Olvir!--you grieve me; I cannot bear it!"
"Why grieve, king's daughter? If we may not wed in this life, we shall be united forever in the life beyond."
"There is still hope; I will go to my father when he is alone, and implore him to grant us happiness."
"It may be he will yield to you--Loki! What's that? The hangings--"
Hampered though he was by the priest's gown, Olvir sprang across the room with the quickness of a leaping wolf. The tapestry, torn from its fastenings by his fierce grasp, fell apart and exposed the withered form of Kosru the leech, crouched against the wall.
"So--it is the werwolf's dotard," said Olvir, and his lip curled with a smile of utter contempt. But the spy was already grovelling on his face, terrified by the dagger and the terrible look of the Northman as he tore apart the tapestry.
"Lord--lord!--spare the aged!" he babbled. "God of Light, soften his heart! Spare me, noble count! I will tell all. I will pay you wergild for my life,--shining gold,--all the scant hoard I 've saved and put away for my helpless age!"