As the women swept after their leader through a private passage, Duke Lupus reached out to refill the king's gold flagon. He was met by a quick gesture of refusal, and Karl turned his empty cup brim down upon the table.
"Enough of wine," he said. "I am not over-fond of wassail, and the feast is dull without our fair ones to grace the board."
Lupus opened his lips to protest, but caught a glance from Hardrat, and changed at once to bowing compliance: "Your Majesty, dancing and juggling were to have followed. Yet whatever may be your pleasure--"
"You are a kind host, and we give thanks for the feast. Another time we may enjoy the mountebanks. Farewell, lord duke. God keep you! Anselm, a word in private; and you, Fulrad. Farewell, my bright Dane."
Olvir wheeled about to salute the king. As his hand fell, his eye met Karl's smiling gaze, and he glanced down at the royal couch. The king looked, and saw the arrow wrapped in his kerchief. He nodded gravely to Olvir, and, arrow in hand, left the chamber, between Anselm and Fulrad.
Released from restraint by the departure of the king, the remaining guests gathered about the head of the table, and many accepted the duke's invitation to join in a wassail bout. Most of the priests, however, and a few of the counts at once withdrew from the banquet-chamber. In their midst went Olvir, so intent on the vision of Fastrada's loveliness that he had no thought for his foster-brother.
Still musing, he passed the door, and found himself standing in the torchlight, face to face with Gerold and Roland. His eyes fell, and he would have passed by the two with flushed cheeks, had not Roland laid a hand on his shoulder and turned to walk beside him.
"Our horses are at your camp, gossip," calmly remarked the Frank. "We shall return with you for the night."
"The murderers may yet linger," added Gerold, from the rear.
Olvir halted and stepped back from Roland.