Ha'vama'l.

This morning there were few travellers upon the Street. South of the highway
the land was held by English farmers, who would naturally remain under cover
while a Danish host was in the neighborhood; while north of the great dividing
line lay Danish freeholds whose masters might be equally likely to see the
prudence of being in their watch-towers when the English allies were passing.
Barred across by the shadows of its mighty trees, the great road stretched
away mile after mile in cool emptiness. At rare intervals, a mounted messenger
clattered over the stones, his hand upon his weapon, his eyes rolling sharply
in a keen watch of the thicket on either side. Still more rarely, foraging
parties swept through the morning stillness, lowing cows pricked to a sharp
trot before them, and squawking fowls slung over their broad shoulders.
Captured pigs gave back squeal for squawk, and the voices of the riders rose
in uproarious laughter until the very echoes revolted and cast back the
hideous din.

The approach of the first of these bands caused Randalin's heart to leap and
sink under her brave green tunic. For all that she could tell from their
dress, they might as well be English as Danish. If her disguise should fail!
As they bore down upon her, she drew her horse to the extreme edge of the road
and turned upon them a pale defiant face.

On they came. When they caught sight of a sprig of a boy drawn up beside the
way with his hand resting sternly on his knife, they sent up a shout of
boisterous merriment. The blood roared so loudly in Randalin's ears that she
could not understand what they said. She jerked her horse's head toward the
trees and drove her spur deep into his side. Only as he leaped forward and
they swept past her, shouting, did the words reach home.