"Which is to say--"
"Nothing, sire, nothing!" broke in Roland. "We were merely talking of my sword-brother."
"A choice subject," rejoined Karl; "yet had I worn the buskins of Count Roland, I should have talked more of the maiden herself, and of Count Roland's thoughts of her."
Roland's frown deepened, and Fastrada's blushing face bent still farther forward. Olvir sat rigidly erect, striving to resist his desire to gaze down on the drooping maiden. He had caught one glimpse of her face as she stood between him and the king,--a glimpse that of itself was enough to set his pulses wildly throbbing; and now there was added to it the warmth and perfume of her person close against his side. The temptation was almost greater than he could bear. Only by the strongest effort could he hold in mind his duty to his foster-brother. Of all present, he perhaps felt most keenly the constraint of the silence which followed the king's well-meant raillery.
The pause was broken by Hildegarde, with the kindly thought of diverting attention from the lovers.
"Dear lord, you told me that Count Olvir was the foster-son of Otkar the Dane. Have I not also heard you say that Lord Otkar was the craftiest as well as the strongest of warriors?"
"He was a foe worthy a king," answered Karl. "Would that the hero were now beside my throne, with his grey wit and mighty axe! Yet I should not complain. Here is one whom he has reared in all his lore and wisdom."
"The lore, but not the wisdom, lord king," replied Olvir. "He could give me the one; the other no man may impart."
"True; and the saying tells me you have found wisdom for yourself. Beware, for now I shall put your wit to the test. I would ask your counsel on this Saracen war. All my other borders are pacified. Even the Saxon Mark--"
"Count nothing on the Saxons, lord king," interrupted Olvir.