mark them as the very
flower of English chivalry. The young noble, who hovered around his
chief much as Rothgar circled about Canute, would have been lordly in a
serf's tunic; and the leader's royal bearing distinguished him even more
than his mighty frame.

At the sight of him, Rothgar uttered a great cry of "Edmund!" and moved
forward, swinging his uplifted axe. But the Ironside caught it on his
shield and delivered a sword-thrust in return that dropped the Dane's
arm by his side. As it fell, Rothgar's left hand plucked forth his
blade, but the English king had pressed past him toward his master.

Canute's weapon had need to dart like a northern light. The noble and
one of the soldiers had forced their way to the side from which Thorkel
had been riven, and a third threatened him from the rear. Three blades
stabbed at him as with one motion.

It was a strange thing that saved him,--Randalin could explain it least
of all. But in a lightning flash it was burnt into her mind that, while
her King's sword was a match for the two in front of him, the one behind
was going to deal him his death. And even as she thought it, she found
that she had thrown herself across her horse's neck and thrust out her
sword-arm,--out with the force of frenzy and down into the shoulder of
the Englishman. In a kind of dazed wonder, she saw his blade fall from
his grasp and his eyes roll up at her, as he staggered backwards.

Canute laughed out, "Well done, Berserker!" and redoubled his play
against those before him.

A turn of his wrist disarmed the soldier, and his point touched the
young noble's breast; but before he could lunge, the mighty figure of
Edmund rose close at hand, his blade heaved high above his head.

For such a stroke there was no parry. A kingdom seemed to be passing.
Canute threw his shield before him, while his spur caused his horse to
swerve violently; but the blade cleft wood and iron and golden plating
like parchment, and falling on the horse's neck, bit it to the bone.
Rearing and plunging with pain, the animal crashed into those behind
him, missed his footing and fell, entangling his rider in the trappings.
Bending over him, the Ironside struck again.

But the son of Lodbrok had still his left arm. Bearing his shield, it
shot out over the body of his King. The falling brand bit this screen
also, and lopped off the hand that held it, but the respite was
sufficient. In a flash Canute was on his feet, both hands gr