Olvir's own mail was on in a trice, followed as quickly by his gala jerkin. Unlike Roland's tunic, however, the jerkin failed to hide his armor. Its gold collar might have passed as an ornament; but the long sleeves of ring-mail glinting beneath the cloth at the wearer's wrists could be mistaken by none.
"Thor! what care I for the Merwing?" exclaimed Olvir; and stripping off the jerkin, he belted Al-hatif on the shimmering mail. As he flung his gay cloak about his shoulders, he added grimly, "If the Vascon question my feast-dress, I have my answer. More than one tale did Otkar tell as he lay dying."
"Bear in mind, brother, the duke will be our host; so ward your tongue," cautioned Roland.
"Let him look to his own, then, and mine will wag little," replied Olvir. "Ah, here comes Gerold, with a good mail-serk on his back. On with your hall-dress, lad. We wait for you."
"The boat also. I was seeking Liutrad, to care for my horse," explained Gerold, as he drew on the garments tossed him by Olvir.
A little later the three friends were seated in the stern of the Raven's boat, and six mail-clad vikings were rowing them upstream, through the twilight, with long, steady strokes. Floki himself pulled bow-oar.
For a while Olvir skirted the shore; then he steered out into midstream.
"Ho, earl! swing in again," called Floki, sharply. "The stream might well run slower."
"Also your tongue, Crane!" retorted Olvir. "In this dusk watchers might doubt our looks; but Thor smite me if they could doubt your croak."
"What of that?" growled Floki.