"A wolf's hair!" exclaimed Roland. "But why--"
"A warning!" broke in Gerold. "I 've heard of the like in Saxon Land; and did not Gudrun, in the old lay, send such to her kinsmen? Am I not right, hero?"
"Ay; come within, Roland. Hroar's scale hauberk will hang well on your shoulders. You, Gerold, shall go borrow a mail-serk from a man your size. Bid Floki see to it that the boatmen also arm themselves. None shall go to the feast naked."
"You fear an attack?" questioned Roland as Gerold darted away.
"There are lonely copses on the way to Casseneuil," answered Olvir.
"If men lie in wait, they will not look for us in the boat. We will pass them by."
"And if not? Besides, it may be that the danger waits us at the villa--even in the feast hall. A dagger from behind--"
"True; Lupus is a Merwing. God forbid he put poison in our flagons!"
"That we must chance. But the good mail beneath our jerkins will do no harm."
Roland's response was to unbuckle the belt from which swung the heavy blade of Ironbiter. Olvir then unrolled Hroar's scale hauberk from its fur wrappings, and, having adjusted the bandages on the Frank's half-healed wounds, he buckled the armor about the massive body of his friend. The count's silk-embroidered tunic followed, entirely covering the gilded steel. Last of all, Olvir replaced Ironbiter with a lighter sword. Roland yet lacked strength to wield that great Norse blade.