“The sword is under the horse,” the man said groaning.  And it was so, and unhurt.

“Get me a sword from off the field,” I said, “and hide Foe’s Bane somewhere.  Then, if they slay me, take it to Egil, Jarl Thorkel’s foster brother; and if not, I can find it again.  I will not have it taken from me thus.”

So Thrand took it and its scabbard and hid both under his cloak, and went to where there was a patch of woodland at the foot of the hill—­ash and alder growing by the marsh side—­some two hundred yards off.

I closed my eyes and waited till he came back—­and he was gone for some while.  Presently he came, and told me that he had hidden it under a fallen tree trunk, and that the place was dry and safe.  He found me another sword easily enough—­and it was notched from point to hilt.  Its edge was not like that of Foe’s Bane, but the man whose it had been had done his duty with it.  It was an English sword.

Now I thought that I could walk again, and stood up and made a step or two, painfully enough, in truth, but in such wise that I should soon do better.  And then over the brow of the hill the Danes began to come.  They had circled round and I had not noted them, and came on us from the other side.  They were searching among the slain for their comrades.

Half a dozen of them came towards Thrand and me, and I suppose that they would have slain me.  But my man was ready for them, and took the sword from me quickly.

“Will the king suffer us to keep captives?” he said.

“Aye,” one answered, in some Jutland speech that was new to me, though one could understand it well enough, “there is word that we are to take any chiefs alive—­but that is a new word to us.  Who minds it?”

“I do,” said Thrand.  “Here is one who will pay for freedom, and he has yielded to me.”

“That is luck for you,” they said, and passed on.

There was plunder enough all around, and they were in haste lest others should come.  Thrand’s Anglian speech was Danish enough for them.

“Now you are safe, master,” Thrand said; “no need for the sword.”

“I am a captive,” said I bitterly.

Then my eyes sought the ground as Thrand cast the useless blade away, and there, crawling on the reddened turf, was a toad that feared not the still dead, and must seek its food whether men lived or died, unheeding aught but that.  And when I saw it, into my mind flashed the time when I had stood, weakened and hurt, and looked at the like in Penhurst village—­and the words that Spray the smith spoke came to me, and they cheered me, as a little thing will sometimes.  And then I thought of her who prayed for me among Penhurst woods, and I was glad that life was left me yet.

More Danes kept coming now, and presently one who was in some command came to where I sat with Thrand standing over me.

“Is this a captive?” he asked.

“Aye,” said Thrand.