He was brought to himself by the touch of Rolf’s hand on his shoulder.  They were all looking at him, he found,—­once more with expectant grins.  Opposite him an ungainly young fellow in slave’s garb—­and with the air of belonging in it—­stood as though waiting, a naked sword in his hand.

“Now I have still more regard for you when I see that you have also the trick of reading English runes,” the Wrestler said.  “But I ask you to leave them a minute and listen to me.  Thorgrim here has a thrall whom he holds to be most handy with a sword; but I have wagered my gold necklace against his velvet cloak that you are a better man than he.”

The meaning of the group dawned on Alwin then:  he drew himself up with freezing haughtiness.  “It is not likely that I will strive against a low-born serf, Rolf Erlingsson.  You dare to put an insult upon me because luck has left your hair uncut.”

A sound like the expectant drawing-in of many breaths passed around the circle.  Alwin braced himself to withstand Rolf’s fist; but the Wrestler only drew back and looked at him reprovingly.

“Is it an insult, Alwin of England, to take you at your word?  It is not three hours since you vowed never to turn your back on a challenge while the red blood ran in your veins.  Have witches sucked the blood out of you, that your mind is so different when you are put to the test?”

At least enough blood was left to crimson Alwin’s cheeks at this reminder.  Those had been his very words, stung by Rolf’s taunt.

The smouldering doubt he had felt burst into flame and burned through every fibre.  What if it were all a trap, a plot?—­if Rolf had brought him there on purpose to fight, the horses being only a pretext?  Thorgrim’s wink, his allusion to Alwin’s swordsmanship, it had all been arranged between them; the velvet cloak was the clew!  Rolf had wished to possess it.  He had persuaded Thorgrim to stake it on his thrall’s skill,—­then he had brought Alwin to win the wager for him. Brought him, like a trained stallion or a trick dog!

He turned to fling the deceit in the Wrestler’s teeth.  Rolf’s fair face was as innocent as those of the pictured saints in the Saxon book.  Alwin wavered.  After all, what proof had he?

Jeering whispers and half-suppressed laughter became audible around him.  The group believed that his hesitation arose from timidity.  Ignoring the smart of yesterday’s wound, he snatched the sword Rolf held out to him, and started forward.

His foot struck against the Saxon book which he had let fall.  As he picked it up and laid it reverently aside, it suggested something to him.

“Thorgrim Svensson,” he said, pausing, “because I will not have it said that I am afraid to look a sword in the face, I will fight your serf,—­on one condition:  that this book, which can be of no use to you, you will give me if I get the better of him.”

The freckled face puckered itself into a shrewd squint.  “And if you fail?”