That man of the Southland.
SONG OF ATLI.
Left alone on the knoll, Olvir turned his gaze back to the now distant barge, and watched it musingly until it disappeared beyond a clump of woods. Floki's warning had moved him more than he had cared to acknowledge. Though far from being as profound as had been Otkar, the man was possessed of exceptional shrewdness, and the knowledge of this now compelled the young sea-king to pause and ponder his words. Could they be true? He smiled at the absurdity of the question. But then he remembered the noble Frank whom he had chosen for foster-brother, and the smile left his face. However pure and innocent, what was this maiden to him?
"It is I who am dogwise, not Floki," he muttered, and he turned his back on Casseneuil.
Within a bow-shot of the king's pavilion he came upon Count Hardrat, and his quick eye noted that the man's first impulse was to avoid him. But as the Northman approached, the Thuringian advanced to meet him.
"I would make my peace," he said with a gruff show of cordiality. "Heroes should not bear malice,--and more, you had the best of it."
"Say no more of the wrangle," replied Olvir, quickly. "I heard your name, but it slips my memory."
"Hardrat, a count of Thuringia,--count of a little shire, when I should hold the Sorb Mark, if right were done me," grumbled the Thuringian. "But old Rudulf has a pretty daughter in the king's hall; and when was Karl ever known--"
Olvir turned upon the speaker, his eyes ablaze.
"How!" he demanded; "do you say anything against the maiden?"