Rothgar took no part in the stream of questions and comments that again drowned the voice of the messenger, until suddenly he launched an oath that out-thundered them all: “May Thor feel otherwise than I do, for I vow that were I in his place, I would raise Danish warriors in wool-chests! Is that the valor of the descendants of Odin, that they go not into battle until a foul-hearted traitor has swept the way clean of danger? Is the heart of the King become wax within him? Or is it that cold-blooded fox at his side that is draining the manhood out of him? I would give much if I had been there!” Casting himself down upon the bearskin, he lay there breathing hard and tearing the fur out in great handfuls. Brass Borgar spoke with the utmost deprecation: “I say nothing against your feelings, chief; and there are not a few who think as you do; yet I ask you to remember one thing. I ask you to remember that no Dane has ever held back in battle because he had the Traitor’s help. Canute uses him to strengthen his back; never to shield his face. The Islanders’ own mouths have admitted that the odds are against ten Englishmen if they face one Dane. I think it is because he is out of patience with the war that the King makes of the Gainer a time-saver. It has been told me that he fights not for love of it, nor yet for glory, but because he covets the land of—” Like the bellow of an angry bull, Rothgar’s voice broke through his. “Land! Quickly will I proclaim my opinion of any man who sets his heart on that! He who forgets glory in his eagerness for property, deserves the curse of Thor!” “Prepare yourself, then, for a thunderbolt, Rothgar Lodbroksson,” a clear voice spoke up suddenly. None but had forgotten the red-cloaked figure munching its bread in the shadow behind them. One and all started in surprise. And the chief turned over his shoulder a face that was livid with anger. “You—you dare!” he roared. But Randalin’s heart was too full of bitterness to leave any room for fear. At the moment, it seemed to her that it did not matter what happened. She stood before the Jotun as straight and unbending as a spear-shaft, and her eyes were reflections of his own. Her wonder was great when slowly, even while his eyes blazed, Rothgar’s mouth began to twitch at the corners. All at once he rolled over on his back with a shout of laughter. “By Ragnar, there will not be many jests to equal this!” he gasped. “That a titmouse should ruffle its feathers and upbraid me! Here is merriment!” He lay there laughing after the others had joined in with him; and his face was not entirely sober the next time he turned it toward her. “Good Berserker, give me leave to live some while longer in order that I may explain my intentions.”