"More, sire!--more!" cried Roland, as he sprang forward from the supporting arm of his companion.
The king met him halfway, and drew him up as he sought to kneel.
"You 're wounded, kinsman!" he exclaimed. "You have fought at sea! Where are your followers--and the child?"
"I have lost my henchmen, sire; but all else is well--thanks to Lord Olvir, my noble sword-brother."
"This Dane?"
"Ay, sire; leader of half a thousand sea-wolves,--the pick of the North. He has saved me from torture and the princess from shame."
"By my father's soul, he has earned the good-will of one who can repay! Stand forward, my bright Dane, that Karl the King may give you thanks."
At such a bidding from the lord of half Europe, most men would have run to kneel at the king's feet. Such, however, was not the manner of vikings, and Olvir Thorbiornson was not only a leader of vikings, but, throughout the heathen North, could have laid claim without dispute to a descent direct from Odin. Instead of hastening forward, with glowing face and ready bows, he advanced proudly erect, as one sea-king would meet another.
Karl and his lords gazed at the young heathen in wondering admiration, no less impressed by the grace and pride of his bearing than by his rich dress and the beauty of his sword and war-gear. Beside his lithe figure and dark, masterful face even Gerold of Bussen appeared rough and uncouth.
Olvir neither bowed nor knelt, but raised his shield overhead in salute, and returned Karl's gaze with the unflinching look of an equal. It was a novel meeting for the warrior-king, before whom even the wild Saxons trembled. He frowned and said shortly: "It would seem that the Danes are stiff of knee."