Shall come heavy vengeance.
LAY OF BRYNHILD.
Within a small turret room, that was warmed by a charcoal brazier and lighted by the glow of his own hour-candles, Karl sat on a low bench beside the book-strewn table, while before him knelt Rothada, clasping his sword-hand to her bosom, as she pleaded for love and happiness. His free hand lay upon her glossy head, but his eyes were raised in a troubled look to where Olvir, in his burnished mail, stood calm and beautiful as Forseti, son of Balder. Beside the Northman, with slender fingers clasped upon his glinting shoulder-plate, waited Alcuin, the gentle-hearted scholar, eager to add his appeal to the maiden's.
But when the little princess ceased, and bowed her tear-wet face upon her father's knee, he held up his hand for silence, and sat for many moments, his brows bent in deep thought. Olvir waited the outcome, his eyes fixed upon the king's face in a calm and steady gaze, neither defiant nor imploring.
Then Karl looked up at him, and spoke: "So, Dane hawk, after all the honors I have heaped upon you, not content to defy Holy Church, you come to steal my daughter from me,--a thief in the night! And yet you drew back from the deed; you came before me--"
"For that I claim nothing, lord king. Had not Rothada been loath--"
"And why--why as a thief--"
"Do you ask, lord king? Many weary months have passed since you gave pledge to call me to your side,--to the presence of my betrothed. I come at last, an unwelcome guest, to hear on every lip the bitter tale that your queen is plotting to break my betrothal bonds and wed Count Worad with my bride."
"My queen plotting! Ward your tongue, Dane!"
"It is not I who say that the queen is plotting. Whether she is or is not, I do not know; but I know that your liegemen so say."