"There is magic on it. It must bring
us luck. Whoever holds that must kill his man. It will pick a lock of
steel. It will crack a mail corslet as a nut-hatch cracks a nut. It will
hew a lance in two at a single blow. Devils and spirits forged it,--I know
that; Virgilius the Enchanter, perhaps, or Solomon the Great, or
whosoever's name is on it, graven there in letters of gold. Handle it,
feel its balance; but no,--do not handle it too much. There is a devil in
it, who would make you kill me. Whenever I play with it I long to kill a
man. It would be so easy,--so easy. Give it me back, my lord, give it me
back, lest the devil come through the handle into your palm, and possess
you."
Hereward laughed, and gave him back his battle-axe. But he had hardly less
doubt of the magic virtues of such a blade than had Martin himself.
"Magical or not, thou wilt not have to hit a man twice with that, Martin,
my lad. So we two outlaws are both well armed; and having neither wife nor
child, land nor beeves to lose, ought to be a match for any six honest men
who may have a grudge against us, and sound reasons at home for running
away."
And so those two went northward through the green Bruneswald, and
northward again through merry Sherwood, and were not seen in that land
again for many a year.
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