For the White Christ: A Story of the Days of Charlemagne

by Robert Ames Bennet

The Thuringian recoiled as though struck.

"I--I--no!" he stammered.

"Then ward your tongue."

The count sought to meet his gaze, but failed.

"My lord Dane," he protested half sullenly, "are you not over-hasty? Surely, to speak without offence of a maiden whom you have met but once--"

"To me she is as a sister. She is all but betrothed to my foster-brother. But no more. I mistook your tone. And now I should hold it a favor to be told whose are yonder tents. They differ from all others I see about."

"Well they may. It is the camp of the Saracen envoys,--Al Arabi and--"

"Al Arabi--Al Arabi! How else is he called?"

"He is named after the wise King of the Hebrews, though his people give it a strange sound,--Sul--Suleyman."

"Thor smite me!" cried Olvir, his eyes glittering. "My thanks for the word. Farewell, earl."