worshipping instinct, they looked one and all at her flashing eyes,
full of noble pity and indignation, as well as of mere woman's
terror--and drew back, and whispered together.

Whether the good spirit or the evil one would conquer, seemed for a
moment doubtful, when Pelagia felt a heavy hand on her shoulder, and
turning, saw Wulf the son of Ovida.

'Go back, pretty woman! Men, I claim the boy. Smid, give him to
me. He is your man. You could have killed him if you had chosen,
and did not; and no one else shall.'

'Give him us, Prince Wulf! We have not seen blood for many a day!'

'You might have seen rivers of it, if you had had the hearts to go
onward. The boy is mine, and a brave boy. He has upset a warrior
fairly this day, and spared him; and we will make a warrior of him
in return.'

And he lifted up the prostrate monk.

'You are my man now. Do you like fighting?'

Philammon, not understanding the language in which he was addressed,
could only shake his head--though if he had known what its import
was, he could hardly in honesty have said, No.

'He shakes his head! He does not like it! He is craven! Let us
have him!'