" And he dropped quietly back behind
Hereward's horse, as if the business of his life was settled, and his mind
utterly at rest.
"There is one more likeness between us," said Hereward, after a few
minutes' thought. "If I have robbed a church, thou hast robbed one too.
What is this precious spoil which is to serve me and thee in such mighty
stead?"
Martin drew from inside his shirt and under his waistband a small
battle-axe, and handed it up to Hereward. It was a tool the like of which
in shape Hereward had seldom seen, and never its equal in beauty. The
handle was some fifteen inches long, made of thick strips of black
whalebone, curiously bound with silver, and butted with narwhal ivory.
This handle was evidently the work of some cunning Norseman of old. But
who was the maker of the blade? It was some eight inches long, with a
sharp edge on one side, a sharp crooked pick on the other; of the finest
steel, inlaid with strange characters in gold, the work probably of some
Circassian, Tartar, or Persian; such a battle-axe as Rustum or Zohrab may
have wielded in fight upon the banks of Oxus; one of those magic weapons,
brought, men knew not how, out of the magic East, which were hereditary in
many a Norse family and sung of in many a Norse saga.
"Look at it," said Martin Lightfoot.
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