"Have you so soon forgot?" demanded Gerold. "In this wood is the camp of Count Hardrat, whom two days since your ring-breaker flung on the turf."
"Liutrad's red pig!" said Floki, contemptuously.
"But even the meanest foe--"
Roland stopped short. An arrow had whistled past, not a span before his face.
"Saint Michael! an attack!" cried Gerold. "Put about, hero. We 'll land, and slay the murderers!"
"They shall hang! Put about, brother!" shouted Roland, as a second arrow flew out of the gloom, to shiver on his shoulder, and another fell blunted from Olvir's side.
The sea-king's nostrils quivered, and his black eyes flashed eagerly, as, thrusting over the steer-oar, he stooped for the arrow at his feet. For a moment he stood peering at the missile in the dim light, and a fourth arrow struck quivering in the boat's upcurved stern. Then, with a stifled cry, he thrust back the steer-oar so forcefully that the turning boat surged round again and headed for the opposite shore.
"Ho, look to your tiller!" protested Roland. "You sheer off."
"Give way, men," commanded Olvir. "Who hungers for venomed shafts?"
"Venomed?" cried Gerold.'