g
dressed in man's garments, it was likely that the Valkyrias would
mistake her for a boy; if she bore herself bravely, it was possible that
they might carry her up to Valhalla. Should she once reach her father's
arms, he would not let Odin himself drive her forth. The hot tears
gathered under her lids. If only she could get to her father! He would
be glad to see her, and he would be proud of her; Rothgar himself had
said it. Even Fridtjof would not be ashamed that she had borne his name.
She must be very careful about that, she realized suddenly. He had never
known what the word "fear" meant; even in Valhalla he would turn from
her, should she disgrace him. It would become an unheard-of wickedness
to borrow a name from the helpless dead if you could not wear it
worthily. Her conscience smote her now, for her shirking, and she
struggled to her feet.

None too soon; above the outside din a horn clarioned, loud and clear.
Through the hush that followed could be heard the voice of Canute,
assigning their positions to the different bands.

"I and my kinsman, Ulf Jarl, shall be foremost. To the right of my
standard Edric Jarl shall stand, and the men with whom he joined us. He
shall have another standard. To the left of my bodyguard shall stand the
men of Eric of Norway. Friends and kinsmen shall stand together. There
each will defend the other best."

Then Rothgar's harsh voice sounded, shouting her name,--Fridtjof's name.
Giving her scarf a hasty twist about her arm, she knotted it with her
teeth; and seizing the sword in her little brown hand clotted with her
own blood, she ran out into the tumult.

Chapter VII. The Game of Swords

It is better for the brave man
Than for the coward
To join in the battle.
It is better for the glad
Than for the sorrowing
In all circumstances.
Fafnisma'l.

It would have been a dull soul that would not have been stirred by a
sight of Danish camp. The host was like a forest of mighty trees
tossing and swaying before the approach of a storm. Lines of moving
shot lightning flashes through the dusk of the shady grove; while the
hundreds of jubilant voices blended into rumbling thunder. Through the
tumult, the blaring horns thrilled like pulse-beats.

Flaring crimson under her brown skin, Randalin's Viking blood leaped to
answer the call. For Rothgar's shout she gave another, and laughed out
of sheer delight when he tossed her upon the back of a pawing hor