"And he told you? Saint Michael! there was no plot, lord king,--no plot but his own when he lured Count Rudulf and his Wend wife into the ambush of the Sorbs. I myself found the arrow-pierced bodies on the Saale bank,--I myself, in the lead of the Thuringian searchers. Then many counts who had been feasting at Hardrat's hall told how the Dane had passed by, riding with his chosen victims."
"Hold!" commanded Karl, and he bent forward to fix his keen eyes on the young Frank. "You say they passed by Hardrat's hall?"
Worad drew a large scroll from his breast and held it out to the king. "Here, sire, is the tale, to which all the feasters took oath. I called upon them for it, when, having brought up my warriors, I marched to the warring to take the betrayer, and found that he had fled. Thank God, I find you safe, dear lord! Days had passed since the foul deed, and men said he had gone Rhineward. I rode fast, fearful of the worst--"
"Your fear was needless. Traitor or true man, he came before me with a calm face."
"For you gave him all that he asked, dear lord!" cried Fastrada. "Ai, Holy Mother--to think how near you 've been to his murderous blade!--the bloody Dane, foul betrayer of my father--my mother!--red-handed from the slaying of that helpless greybeard--Ai! the mire-death were light doom for such a treacherous slayer! Justice--justice, son of Pepin! I demand vengeance on the slayer of my kin!"
Even Gerold quivered at the grief and horror in the queen's voice. The shrill appeal pierced to the heart like a knife-thrust. The king's face was terrible to look upon in its deadly anger; and yet he still hesitated.
"It cannot be--it cannot be!" he muttered. "He, my bright Dane--"
"Bright Dane!" screamed Fastrada--"heathen outlander--heretic--scoffer at Holy Church! What lying tale has he told you, that you stand in doubt? Look--look on the scroll which tells of my kin's betrayal--at this knife from the heart of the greybeard! Ai--they shall trample him in the mire!"
"King of Heaven!--that battle-leader! He is no coward to be flung in the fen. You ask too much, wife."
"Too much! Ai, too much for the slayer of my kin! But the king speaks-- Let him, then, be torn asunder by the plunging horses--the murderous wretch! Hei! I can hear the snapping bones!"