The man neither struggled nor called for mercy, but looked boldly up in his victor’s face and awaited death with a smile.
The sword of Sigurd did not descend. Some passing memory, perchance, or some soft voice breathing mercy, held it back. He drew back his foot, and sheathing his weapon, said—
“Keep thy life, and return and serve the king thy master.”
The man lay for a moment as one bewildered, then springing to his feet, and casting from him his broken sword, he knelt and cried—
“Oh, merciful knight, to thee I owe my life, and it is thee I will serve to the world’s end!”
“Peace!” said Sigurd, sternly; “this is no time for parley. I must be in Jockjen this night. Follow me if thou wilt thus far.”
And with that he began to stride once more forward with rapid steps, followed closely by his late adversary.
Sigurd uttered not a word, but walked with sword drawn as before, fearing nothing save to arrive too late at Niflheim.
Once, as they neared Jockjen, two other robbers rushed out from the woods as if to attack him, but when they perceived the stalwart champion who followed hasten forward and place himself beside the traveller, they refrained, and departed suddenly the way they came.
And now they were come at last to Jockjen. But when Sigurd made as though he would enter the town, his follower hastened to overtake him, and said—