battle. I swear it by the hilt of the Hanger!"

For the moment, the girl forgot her wound and hung limp in the great hands.
"The battle?" she gasped. "I--I fight?"

Roaring afresh, the Jotun gave her another jubilant toss. "You blustering
field-mouse! Showing your teeth already? Who knows? If you meet a blind
Englishman without a weapon, you may even kill him. Here," he tumbled her
roughly to the ground, "tie up your pin-scratch and then come after me. I must
go up yonder to Canute, under the oak tree. If you are too tired to wield the
sword, tie your hand to the hilt, and no man shall have a better will to do
harm to the English. Frode the Dane will experience great pride when he looks
out of Valhalla to-day." Putting out one great hand, he patted her soft curls
as though she were some shaggy dog, then hurried out to his chief.

It was a respite to be alone, and she accepted it gratefully, sinking among
the cushions with closed eyes and a hand on her throbbing wrist. But it was
only a respite; she never for a moment lost sight of that. The battle must be
faced, and faced boldly. One word of reluctance would be the surest betrayal
of her secret. And betrayal meant Rothgar! She shivered as she fancied she
still felt his greasy touch upon her hair. To become his property that he
might even kiss! With a gasp of relief, she turned her thoughts back to the
battle.

After all, it was not unthinkable. Her riding would never betray her; and in
the confusion, who would notice whether or not she used her sword? She did
grow a little cold as the possibility of being killed occurred to her; but
even that darkness gave birth to a light. Being 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