loosed from the cage of her will,
alighting here, upstarting there, without let or hindrance. Sometimes
they stooped to so foolish a thing as a notch on her horse's ear, and
spent whole minutes questioning dully whether the teeth of another horse
had made the wound or whether a sword had nicked it in battle. Sometimes
they followed the notes of the horns, as the ringing tones passed the
order along. From the blaring blast at her ear, the sound was drawn out
on either side of her as fine as silver wire, far, far away toward the
hills. It gave her no conscious impression of the vastness of the hosts,
but it brought a vague sense of wandering, of helplessness, that caused
her fluttering wits to turn back, startled, and set to watching the
pictures that showed through rifts in the swirling dust clouds,--an
Englishman falling from his saddle, his fingers widespread upon the air;
a Danish bowman wiping blood from his eyes that he might see to aim his
shaft; yonder, the figure of Leofwinesson himself, leaping forward with
swift-stabbing sword. But whether they were English who fell or Danes
who stood, she had no thought, no care; they meant no more to her than
rune figures carved in wood.

The sun rose higher in the heavens, till it stood directly overhead,
and sweat mingled with the blood. Suddenly, the girl awoke to find that
Rothgar's singing had changed into cursing.

"Heed him not, King," he was bellowing over his horse's head. "We
have no need of trick-bought victories. We bear the highest shields;
warrior-skill will win. We need not his snake-wisdom."

To the other side of the young leader, Thorkel the Tall was spurring,
bending urgently from his saddle. "Craft, my King! Craft! It will take
till nightfall to decide the game. Why spill so much good blood? Listen
to Edric the Gainer--"

Canute's furious curse cut him short. "To the Troll with your craft!
Swords shall make us, or swords shall mar us. Use your blade, or I will
sheathe it in you."

Only the wind that took it from his lips heard the Tall One's
answer; for at that moment his horse reared and sheered away before a
spear-prick, and into the rift a handful of English rushed with shouts
of triumph.

There were no more than half-a-dozen of them, and all were on foot, the
two whose gold-hilted swords proclaimed their nobility of birth sharing
the lot of their lesser comrades according to the old Saxon war-custom;
but it needed not the daring of the attack to