and after a moment
Frode's daughter dropped down again and hid her face in her hands. If
the King should be slain and she be left adrift in this foul sea! She
might as well have screamed as moaned, for all that they would have
noticed.

About this time Canute's blade appeared to have become in earnest.
Ceasing its airy defence, it took on the aggressive. Instead of a
flitting sunbeam, it became a shaft from a burning glass; instead of
one merry humming-bird, it became a whole swarm of skimming, swooping,
darting swallows, waging war on a bewildered owl. Before the sudden fury
of the onslaught, Edmund gave back a pace. And either because his anger
made him reckless or his great bulk was against him, he presently
was forced to draw back another step. Wildest cheers went up from the
North-men. It seemed as though they would wade in a body across the
river.

Only Eric of Norway stamped with uneasiness; and the overhanging brows
of Thorkel the Tall were as lowering hoods above his eyes. "Well has he
hoarded his strength," he muttered. "Well has he saved it, yet--yet--"

At that moment such a roar went up from Northern throats as might well
have startled the wolf's shadow off the face of the sun; for Edmund
Ironside had retreated a third step, and the Dane's point appeared
to lie at the Englishman's heart. Then the uproar died somewhere in
mid-air, for in what seemed the very act of thrusting, Canute had leaped
backward and lowered his blade. So deep was the hush on either side
the river that the whir of a bird's wing sounded as loud as a flight
of arrows. Bending forward, with strained ears and starting eyes, the
spectators saw that the Northern King was speaking, eagerly, with
now and then an impulsive gesture, while the English King listened
motionless.

"Has he got out of his wits?" the Scar-Cheek roared, fairly dancing with
impatience.

In Randalin's face a flash of memory was struggling with bewilderment.
"Other weapons than those which dwell in sheaths." Had he meant "the
sword of speech," his tongue?

With the deliberate grace which characterized his every motion, the
Ironside slid his sword back to its case, and they saw him take a slow
step forward and slowly extend his hand. Then they saw Canute spring to
meet him, and their palms touch in a long grasp.

From the English shore there went up a joyful shout of "Peace!" And a
deafening clamor rose in answer from the Danish bank. But what sentiment
predominat