the man next to her drew in his
breath with a great whistling rush. Canute's weapon, playing with the
lightness of a sun-beam, had evaded a stroke of the great flail and
touched for an instant the shoulder of its wielder. Had he put a pound
more force into the thrust--A groan crept down the Danish line when
the bright blade rose, as lightly as it had fallen, and continued its
butterfly dance. It consoled them a little, however, that no cheer went
up from the English,--only a low buzz that was half of anger, half of
astonishment.

Farther along the eastern bank, where Thorkel the Tall stood beside Ulf
Jarl and Eric of Norway, there was not even a groan. The first rift came
in the puzzled clouds of Eric's face. "Here is the first happening that
makes me hope!" he said. "If he has something more than his fencing
accomplishment to support him, it may be that an unfavorable outcome
need not be expected."

The Tall One's brows relaxed ever so little from their snarl of worry.
"The boy has experienced good training, for all that he has at present
the appearance of a great fool. If Rothgar's warrior skill is in his
arm, yet my caution should be in his head."

Certainly there was no Berserk madness about the young Danishman;
there was hardly even seriousness. Now his blade was a fleeing
will-o'-the-wisp, keeping just out of reach of Edmund's brand with
apparently no thought but of flight. Now, when the Ironside's increasing
vehemence betrayed him into an instant's rashness, it was a humming-bird
darting into a flower-cup. But it always rose again as daintily as it
had alighted.

The Danish bank was frantic with excitement. "It is the dance of the
Northern Lights!" they cried. "Thor has sent him his own sword!"

The lines of English were wild with anger. "Crush him, the hornet, the
wasp! Crush him, Edmund!" they roared.

In his exultation, the Scar-Cheek rolled himself over and over on the
grass, and wound up by thrusting his shaggy head into the lap of the
red-cloaked page. "I must do something for joy," he panted; "and--except
for your hair--you look near enough like a handsome woman. Do you bend
down and kiss me every time Canute pricks him."

His head fell to the ground with a thump as the child of Frode leaped to
her feet.

"If you lay finger on me again," she whispered, "I will caress you with
this!" and for an instant a knife-blade glittered before the bulging
eyes. Snorri rolled back with alacrity and an oath;