"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 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.