"Rather it is your pride, your haughty pride of spirit which bars your way to all happiness. Do not tax my patience too far."
"For the sake of the maiden, sire--" ventured Alcuin.
Karl threw out his hand impatiently.
"Is not the child also in my thoughts?" he demanded. "Ah, little maiden, your pleading tears my heart-strings! For your sake, I give your hero one more trial. I name him Count of the Sorb Mark, in the stead of my slain Grey Wolf. Two days I give him at Attigny; then he goes to snare those forest plotters. If when he drags the guilty men before me for the dooming, he has brought himself to bow to Holy Church, he will find yet other honors waiting him; if, however, he cannot in truth bend his stubborn pride, then, nevertheless, I will give him his bride. Such is my will. I have let mercy set aside my justice. Be content. Now, child, rise and go to your chamber. The good deacon will see you safe. I would speak with Olvir of the commands he bears back to Thuringia."
"My father!" cried Rothada, rising; and the heart of the king softened yet more as he saw the light which shone from the violet eyes. She kissed his hand, and then, with the cry of a happy child, turned quickly from him and ran to fling her arms about Olvir's neck.
"Joy, joy, dear one! The Lord Christ has answered my prayer!" she sang.
"I hear once more the voice of the little vala," said Olvir, softly. "Keep your heart merry, beloved. The days of waiting will soon be ended, and when we meet again, I wish to see those cheeks rounded,--their roses once more blooming to shame the sweetbriar. Go, now, darling. The king waits."
Very tenderly he pressed her face between his hands and bent to kiss her eyes and lips. Then he gave her over into the keeping of the scholar, and turned resolutely away. As he looked around, a drop, bright as a gem, was rolling down the king's bearded cheek.
Silently Karl turned to the table, to grasp Alcuin's quill in his unskilled hand; but the words which he sought to write were ill formed. Throwing aside the blotched parchment, he signed to Olvir to take the quill. Under the Northman's deft strokes, the beautiful letters of the Irish script flowed from the quill's point as by magic. The king, as he spoke the message, watched the nimble scribe with half-envious admiration. When the missive was ended, he took wax and stamped it with his signet, in lieu of the great seal.
"So--that is done," he said shortly. "You are a ready scribe. Not even Liutrad is as quick and sure in forming the letters. Now take the scroll, and go."