"Thor's hammer!" roared Liutrad. "The werwolf has snared you, earl--"
"No, by Odin! The falcon bursts through the limed twigs. I 'll go to the king--"
"Too late--too late!" groaned Gerold. "She has shot her venomed shafts too well. After I, wretched man that I am, had brought the blade that sprung the werwolf's snare, Worad came also, with lies yet worse. The Thuringians have spared no pains. A score of high-counts have sworn that you lured old Rudulf to his death in an ambush of the Sorbs. It was then the werwolf triumphed. The king is filled with her venom; and yet--and yet even then he denied her and doomed you only to outlawry."
Olvir struck his thigh. "Thor! I thank him little for that, when I must go faring, and leave my bride to wed the werwolf's nursling."
"I have another knife," said Rothada, and she looked up at Olvir, her sweet lips straight and tense.
"No, king's daughter!" he answered her sternly; "it shall not come to that. I have the right to take you with me into my banishment. Now what is the vala's word?"
"Oh, my hero, I pray for light! If you must truly go-- But first, there is yet hope. My father does not know the truth."
"Would he listen were it told him? No, darling; come with me, that there may be an end of doubt."
"I cannot, Olvir,--I cannot go yet. First see my father. He is just; he will right the wrong he has put upon you."
"And if not?"