It was slow work. He had forgotten a good deal; and every other word was
linked with distracting memories: his mother leaning from her embroidery
frame to follow the line with her bodkin; his mother, erect and stern,
bidding Brother Ambrose bear him away and flog him for his idleness; his
mother hearing his lesson with one arm around him and the other hand
holding the sweetmeat she would give him if he succeeded. He did not
notice that Rolf's eyes were gradually closing, and his bated breath
lengthening into long even sighs. He plodded on and on.

All at once a thunder of approaching hoof-beats reached him from up the
road. Nearer and nearer they came; and around the curve swept a party of
the King's guardsmen,--yellow hair and scarlet cloaks flying in the
wind, spurs jingling, weapons clattering, armor clashing. Alwin glanced
up and saw their leader,--and his interest in pale pictured saints
dropped dead.

"It must be King Olaf himself!" he murmured, staring.

A head taller than the other tall men, with shoulders a palm's-width
broader, the leader sat on his mighty black horse like a second Thor.
Light flashed from his steel tunic and gilded helmet. His bronzed face
had an eagle's beak for a nose, and eyes of the blue of ice or steel,
piercing as a two-edged sword. A white cross was painted on his shield
of gold.

As he swept past, he glanced toward the pair by the fence. Catching
sight of the sleeping Rolf, he checked his horse sharply, made a motion
bidding the others go on without him, and, wheeling, rode back, followed
only by a mounted thrall who was evidently his personal attendant. Alwin