sant time to me, for I grew to love Olaf, and he was
never willing that I should be far from him. Then, too, I heard
many tales of my grandfather Thoralf from Rani, the old viking who
had fought beside him, and had been with Tryggvesson when he was
christened in England. And of all Olaf's men I liked best Ottar the
Black, the scald, who was but five years older than myself, but who
had yet seen much fighting with the king both by land and sea. We
sang much together, for I was willing to learn from him, and he to
teach me.

Now of this singing there is one thing that I will set down, for
the matter comes into my story again.

One day Ottar sang the saga of the sword of Hiorvard; how the
maiden warrior won it from the grave mound of her father, Angantyr,
in spite of terror of the dead hero, and of the unearthly fires.
That was a good saga, and when it was ended old Rani said:

"Thoralf had a sword that was won by his father from a chief's
grave mound in Vendland, It was the most wondrous sword, save only
Olaf's 'Hneitir' yonder, that I have ever seen. Silver and gold was
its hilt, and the blade was wrought in patterns on the steel, and
there were runes in gold close to the hilt. He would call it 'Foe's
Bane', and that in truth was what the sword was."

I knew only too well that that sword became my father's in his
turn, and now it was lost to me.

"My father fell with sword 'Foe's Bane' in his hand," I said sadly.
"Yet I know that the name was not belied ere he did so."

"Then the Danes have it," said Rani, "and it will come back to
you."

I remembered that Ethelred himself had spoken of the sword, and how
I had made his face fall when he heard that it was lost. Nor had I
been long at court before I heard words from one thane or another
that seemed to say that Edric Streone had made light of our defeat,
for some reasons of his own.

"I must win it back," I said.

"If there is aught in old sayings," answered Ottar, "the sword will
draw its holder to face you, unless he won it in fair fight hand to
hand."

Thereat Olaf laughed, and no more was said. But in years to come
there were told strange tales of the longing, as it were, of his
own sword 'Hneitir' to be back at its master's side.

So the time went quickly for me, but to Olaf the waiting seemed
long before Eadmund rode back from Rouen. And with him came those
thanes and his half-brother Eadward, but Ethelred himself was not
with them. He would not go to