"Praise the saints!" muttered Father Brian. "He hath upset! But for me thou wouldst have done the same."
That was not strictly correct. The Saxon's boat was floating well, but the very energy of his furiously angry spear-throwing had tipped his tiny punt and sent it out from under him, plunging him into the swiftly eddying current of the Derwent.
"Can he swim," whispered Ned, "with all his armour on?"
"That is the last of him!" remarked Father Brian. "He will throw no more javelins. He is gone!"
Not even once did the overweighted house-carle come to the surface. He may indeed have been no swimmer. In the meantime, however, with wild hurrahs, the Saxons on the bridge had charged forward, and thrust after thrust had been given to the prostrate body of the wounded Berserker. He had fallen as he had wished to fall, a hero defying a whole army.
"King Harold's men are pushing across the bridge," said Ned, as his boat drifted out from under it. "Why on earth did the Vikings leave it to be defended by one man?"
"It is only one more of Hardrada's blunders," replied the missionary. "He is only a sea king, and not a good general on the land. A man may be the biggest pirate in all the world and not know enough to handle an army. He hath done little more than to fight hard and to blunder all the while, ever since he landed. Seest thou now? The mounted house-carles gallop forward. Behind them the Saxon army will form on the other bank, and then Hardrada's army is doomed. Thou and I will cross quickly, that we may obtain a good place from which to watch the shutting of this death-trap."
"The Vikings that are left will be awfully outnumbered," said Ned. "Oh, how I wish I could do something for Lars and Vebba and our men!"
"The invading host hath no hope," said his friend. "They are to be struck by one of the best generals in the world, leading the best fighters. Thou canst do nothing at all for thy friends."