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 horse. Away with woman's
fears! The world was a grand brave place, and men a race of heroes. To ride by
their sides, and share their mighty deeds, and see their glory,--what keener
joy had life to offer? Away with fear, with foreboding! The present was
all-glorious, and there would be no to-morrow.

Shrill and clear from the opposite hill came the notes of the English horns,
as down the green slope moved the ranks of English bowmen. The hum of Danish
voices sank in a breathless hush; through the stillness, Tovi, the royal
bannerman, galloped to his post. A rustle, a boom, and the great standard was
unfurled, giving to the breeze the dread Raven of Denmark. Anxious eyes