Now, look here, Smid.

Whomsoever I cannot trust, I suppose I may trust you, eh ?' 'Well!' quoth Smid surlily, putting down his goblet, 'that is a strange question to ask of a man who has marched, and hungered, and plundered, and conquered, and been well beaten by your side for five-and-twenty years, through all lands between the Wesel and Alexandria!' 'I am growing old, I suppose, and so I suspect every one.

But hearken to me, for between wine and ill-temper out it must come.

You saw that Alruna-woman ?' 'Of course.' 'Well ?' 'Well ?' 'Why, did not you think she would make a wife for any man ?' 'Well ?' 'And why not for our Amal ?' 'That's his concern as well as hers, and hers as well as ours.' 'She?
Ought she not to think herself only too much honoured by marrying a son of Odin?
Is she going to be more dainty than Placidia ?' 'What was good enough for an emperor's daughter must be good enough for her.' 'Good enough?
And Adolf only a Balt, while Amalric is a full-blooded Amal--Odin's son by both sides ?' 'I don't know whether she would understand that.' 'Then we would make her.

Why not carry her off, and marry her to the Amal whether she chose or not?
She would be well content enough with him in a week, I will warrant.' 'But there is Pelagia in the way.' 'Put her out of the way, then.' 'Impossible.' 'It was this morning; a week hence it may not be.