The Thrall of Leif the Lucky / Liljencrantz, Ottilie A. (Ottilia Adelina), 1876-1910

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Title: The Thrall of Leif the Lucky

Author: Ottilie A. Liljencrantz

Release Date: October, 2003  [Etext #4581]
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THE THRALL OF LEIF THE LUCKY

A Story of Viking Days


By Ottilie A Liljencrantz




CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1
Where Wolves Thrive Better than Lambs

CHAPTER II
The Maid in the Silver Helmet

CHAPTER III
A Gallant Outlaw

CHAPTER IV
In a Viking Lair

CHAPTER V
The Ire of a Shield-Maiden

CHAPTER VI
The Song of Smiting Steel

CHAPTER VII
The King's Guardsman

CHAPTER VIII
Leif the Cross-Bearer

CHAPTER IX
Before the Chieftain

CHAPTER X
The Royal Blood of Alfred

CHAPTER XI
The Passing of the Scar

CHAPTER XlI
Through Bars of Ice

CHAPTER XIII
Eric the Red in His Domain

CHAPTER XIV
For the Sake of the Cross

CHAPTER XV
A Wolf-Pack in Leash

CHAPTER XVI
A Courtier of the King

CHAPTER XVII
The Wooing of Helga

CHAPTER XVIII
The Witch's Den

CHAPTER XIX
Tales of the Unknown West

CHAPTER XX
Alwin's Bane

CHAPTER XXI
The Heart of a Shield-Maiden

CHAPTER XXIl
In the Shadow of the Sword

CHAPTER XXIII
A Familiar Blade in a Strange Sheath

CHAPTER XXIV
For Dear Love's Sake

CHAPTER XXV
"Where Never Man Stood Before"

CHAPTER XXVI
Vinland the Good

CHAPTER XXVII
Mightier than the Sword

CHAPTER XXVIII
"Things that are Fated"

CHAPTER XXIX
The Battle to the Strong

CHAPTER XXX
From Over the Sea

CONCLUSION



FOREWORD

THE Anglo-Saxon race was in its boyhood in the days when the Vikings
lived. Youth's fresh fires burned in men's blood; the unchastened
turbulence of youth prompted their crimes, and their good deeds were
inspired by the purity and whole-heartedness and divine simplicity of
youth. For every heroic vice, the Vikings laid upon the opposite scale
an heroic virtue. If they plundered and robbed, as most men did in the
times when Might made Right, yet the heaven-sent instinct of hospitality
was as the marrow of their bones. No beggar went from their doors
without alms; no traveller asked in vain for shelter; no guest but was
welcomed with holiday cheer and sped on his way with a gift. As
cunningly false as they were to their foes, just so superbly true were
they to their friends. The man who took his enemy's last blood-drop with
relentless hate, gave his own blood with an equally unsparing hand if in
so doing he might aid the cause of some sworn brother. Above all, they
were a race of conquerors, whose knee bent only to its proved superior.
Not to the man who was king-born merely, did their allegiance go, but to
the man who showed himself their leader in courage and their master in
skill. And so it was with their choice of a religion, when at last the
death-day of Odin dawned. Not to the God who forgives, nor to the God
who suffered, did they give their faith; but they made their vows to the
God who makes men strong, the God who is the never-dying and
all-powerful Lord of those who follow Him.



The Thrall of Leif the Lucky



CHAPTER I

WHERE WOLVES THRIVE BETTER THAN LAMBS

    Vices and virtues
    The sons of mortals bear
    In their breasts mingled;
    No one is so good That no failing attends him,
    Nor so bad as to be good for nothing.
        Ha'vama'l (High Song of Odin).

It was back in the tenth century, when the mighty fair-haired warriors
of Norway and Sweden and Denmark, whom the people of Southern Europe
called the Northmen, were becoming known and dreaded throughout the
world. Iceland and Greenland had been colonized by their dauntless
enterprise. Greece and Africa had not proved distant enough to escape
their ravages. The descendants of the Viking Rollo ruled in France as
Dukes of Normandy; and Saxon England, misguided by Ethelred the Unready
and harassed by Danish pirates, was slipping swiftly and surely under
Northern rule. It was the time when the priests of France added to their
litany this petition: "From the fury of the Northmen, deliver us, good
Lord."

The old, old Norwegian city of Trondhjem, which lies on Trondhjem Fiord,
girt by the river Nid, was then King Olaf Trygvasson's new city of
Nidaros, and though hardly more than a trading station, a hamlet without
streets, it was humming with prosperity and jubilant life. The shore was
fringed with ships whose gilded dragon-heads and purple-and-yellow hulls
and azure-and-scarlet sails were reflected in the waves until it seemed
as if rainbows had been melted in them. Hillside and river-bank bloomed
with the gay tents of chieftains who had come from all over the North to
visit the powerful Norwegian king. Traders had scattered booths of
tempting wares over the plain, so that it looked like fair-time. The
broad roads between the estates that clustered around the royal
residence were thronged with clanking horsemen, with richly dressed
traders followed by covered carts of precious merchandise, with
beautiful fair-haired women riding on gilded chair-like saddles, with
monks and slaves, with white-bearded lawmen and pompous landowners.

Along one of those roads that crossed the city from the west, a Danish
warrior came riding, one keen May morning, with a young English captive
tied to his saddle-bow.

The Northman was a great, hulking, wild-maned, brute-faced fellow,
capped by an iron helmet and wrapped in a mantle of coarse gray, from
whose folds the handle of a battle-axe looked out suggestively; but the
boy was of the handsomest Saxon type. Though barely seventeen, he was
man-grown, and lithe and well-shaped; and he carried himself nobly,
despite his clumsy garments of white wool. His gold-brown hair had been
clipped close as a mark of slavery, and there were fetters on his limbs;
but chains could not restrain the glance of his proud gray eyes, which
flashed defiance with every look.

Crossing the city northward, they came where a trading-booth stood on
its outskirts--an odd looking place of neatly built log walls tented
over with gay striped linen. Beyond, the plain rose in gentle hills,
which were overlooked in their turn by pine-clad snow-capped mountains.
On one side, the river hurried along in surging rapids; on the other,
one could see the broad elbow of the fiord glittering in the sun. At the
sight of the booth, the Saxon scowled darkly, while the Dane gave a
grunt of relief. Drawing rein before the door, the warrior dismounted
and pulled down his captive.

It was a scene of barbaric splendor that the gay roof covered. The walls
displayed exquisitely wrought weapons, and rare fabrics interwoven with
gleaming gold and silver threads. Piles of rich furs were heaped in the
corners, amid a medley of gilded drinking-horns and bronze vessels and
graceful silver urns. Across the back of the booth stretched a benchful
of sullen-looking creatures war-captives to be sold as slaves, native
thralls, and two Northmen enslaved for debt. In the centre of the floor,
seated upon one of his massive steel-bound chests, gorgeous in velvet
and golden chains, the trader presided over his sales like a prince on
his throne.

The Dane saluted him with a surly nod, and he answered with such smooth
words as the thrifty old Norse proverbs advise every man to practise.

"Greeting, Gorm Arnorsson! Here is great industry, if already this
Spring you have gone on a Viking voyage and gotten yourself so good a
piece of property! How came you by him?"

Gorm gave his "property" a rough push forward, and his harsh voice came
out of his bull-thick neck like a bellow. "I got him in England last
Summer. We ravaged his lather's castle, I and twenty ship-mates, and
slew all his kinsmen. He comes of good blood; I am told for certain that
he is a jarl's son. And I swear he is sound in wind and limb. How much
will you pay me for him, Karl Grimsson?"

The owner of the booth stroked his long white beard and eyed the captive
critically. It seemed to him that he had never seen a king's son with a
haughtier air. The boy wore his letters as though they had been
bracelets from the hands of Ethelred.

"Is it because you value him so highly that you keep him in chains?" he
asked.

"In that I will not deceive you," said the Dane, after a moment's
hesitation. "Though he is sound in wind and limb, he is not sound in
temper. Shortly after I got him, I sold him to Gilli the Wealthy for a
herd-boy; but because it was not to his mind on the dairy-farm, he lost
half his herd and let wolves prey on the rest, and when the headman
would have flogged him for it, he slew him. He has the temper of a black
elf."

"He does not look to be a cooing dove," the trader assented. "But how
came it that he was not slain for this? I have heard that Gilli is a
fretful man."

The Dane snorted. "More than anything else he is greedy for property,
and his wife Bertha advised him not to lose the price he had paid. It is
my belief that she has a liking for the cub; she was an English captive
before the Wealthy One married her. He followed her advice, as was to be
expected, and saddled me with the whelp when I passed through the
district yesterday. I should have sent him to Thor myself," he added
with a suggestive swing of his axe, "but that silver is useful to me
also. I go to join my shipmates in Wisby. And I am in haste, Karl
Grimsson. Take him, and let me have what you think fair."

It seemed as if the trader would never finish the meditative caressing
of his beard, but at last he arose and called for his scales. The Dane
took the little heap of silver rings weighed out to him, and strode out
of the tent. At the same time, he passed out of the English boy's life.
What a pity that the result of their short acquaintance could not have
disappeared with him!

The trader surveyed his new possession, standing straight and slim
before him. "What are you called?" he demanded. "And whence come you?
And of what kin?"

"I am called Alwin," answered the thrall; "and I come from Northumbria."
He hesitated, and the blood mounted to his face. "But I will not tell
you my father's name," he finished proudly, "that you may shame him in
shaming me."

The trader's patience was a little chafed. Peaceful merchants were also
men of war between times in those days.

Suddenly he unsheathed the sword that hung at his side, and laid its
point against the thrall's breast.

"I ask you again of what kin you come. If you do not answer now, it is
unlikely that you will be alive to answer a third question."

Perhaps young Alwin's bronzed cheeks lost a little of their color, but
his lip curled scornfully. So they stood, minute after minute, the sharp
point pricking through the cloth until the boy felt it against his skin.

Gradually the trader's face relaxed into a grim smile. "You are a young
wolf," he said at last, sheathing his weapon; "yet go and sit with the
others. It may be that wolves thrive better than lambs in the North."



CHAPTER II

THE MAID IN THE SILVER HELMET


    In a maiden's words
    No one should place faith,
    Nor in what a woman says;
    For on a turning wheel
    Have their hearts been formed,
    And guile in their breasts been laid.
       Ha'vama'l


Day after day, week after week, Alwin sat waiting to see where the next
turn of misfortune's wheel would land him. Interesting people visited
the booth continually. Now it was a party of royal guardsmen to buy
weapons,--splendid mail-clad giants who ate at King Olaf's board, slept
a his hall, and fought to the death at his side. Again it was a
minstrel, with a harp at his back, who stopped to rest and exchange a
song for a horn of mead. Once the Queen herself, riding in a shining
gilded wagon, came in and bought some of the graceful spiral bracelets.
She said that Alwin's eyes were as bright as a young serpent's; but she
did not buy him.

The doorway framed an ever changing picture,--budding birch trees along
the river-bank; men ploughing in the valley; shepherds tending flocks
that looked like dots of cotton wool on the green hillsides. Sometimes
bands of gay folk from the King's house rode by to the hunt, spurs
jingling, horns braying, falcons at their wrists. Sometimes brawny
followers of the visiting chiefs swaggered past in groups, and the boy
could hear their shouting and laughter as they held drinking-bouts in
the hostelry near by. Occasionally their rough voices would grow
rougher, and an arrow would fly past the door; or there would be a clash
of weapons, followed by a groan.

One day, as Alwin sat looking out, his chin resting in his hand, his
elbow on his knee, his attention was caught by two riders winding
swiftly down a hill-path on the right. At first, one was only a blur of
gray and the other a flame of scarlet; they disappeared behind a grove
of aspens, then reappeared nearer, and he could make out a white beard
on the gray figure and a veil of golden hair above the scarlet kirtle.
What hair for a boy, even the noblest born! It was the custom of all
free men to wear their locks uncut; but this golden mantle! Yet could it
be a girl? Did a girl ever wear a helmet like a silver bowl, and a
kirtle that stopped at the knee? If it was a girl, she must be one of
those shield-maidens of whom the minstrels sang. Alwin watched the pair
curiously as they galloped down the last slope and turned into the lane
beside the river. They must pass the booth, and then...

His brain whirled, and he stood up in his intense interest. Something
had startled the white steed that bore the scarlet kirtle; he swerved
aside and rose on his haunches with a suddenness that nearly unseated
his rider; then he took the bronze bit between his teeth and leaped
forward. Whitebeard and his bay mare were left behind. The yellow hair
streamed out like a banner; nearer, and Alwin could see that it was
indeed a girl. She wound her hands in the reins and kept her seat like a
centaur. But suddenly something gave way. Over she went, sidewise; and
by the wrist, tangled in the reins, the horse dragged her over the stony
road.

Forgetting his manacled limbs, Alwin started forward; but it was all
over in an instant. One of the trader's servants flew at the animal's
head and stopped him, almost at the door of the booth. In another moment
a crowd gathered around the fallen girl and shut her from his view.
Alwin gazed at the shifting backs with a dreadful vision of golden hair
torn and splashed with blood. She must be dead, for she had not once
screamed. His head was still ringing with the shrieks of his mother's
waiting-women, as the Danes bore them out of the burning castle.

Whitebeard came galloping up, puffing and panting. He was a puny little
German, with a face as small and withered as a winter apple, but a body
swaddled in fur-trimmed tunics until it seemed as fat as a polar bear's.
He rolled off his horse; the crowd parted before him. Then the English
youth experienced another shock.

Bruised and muddy, but neither dead nor fainting, the girl stood
examining her wrist with the utmost calmness. Though her face was white
and drawn with pain, she looked up at the old man with a little twisted
smile.

"It is nothing, Tyrker," she said quickly; "only the girth broke, and it
appears that my wrist is out of joint. We will go in here, and you shall
set it."

Tyrker blinked at her for a moment with an expression of mingled
affection and wonder; then he drew a deep breath. "Donnerwetter, but you
are a true shield-maiden!" he said in a wavering treble.

The trader received them with true Norse hospitality; and Alwin watched
in speechless amazement while the old man ripped up the scarlet sleeve
and wrenched the dislocated bones into position, without a murmur from
the patient. Despite her strange dress and general dishevelment, he
could see now that she was a beautiful girl, a year or two younger than
himself. Her face was as delicately pink-and-pearly as a sea-shell, and
corn-flowers among the wheat were no bluer than the eyes that looked out
from under her rippling golden tresses.

When the wrist was set and bandaged, the trader presented them with a
silken scarf to make into a sling, and had them served with horns of
sparkling mead. This gave a turn to the affair that proved of special
interest to Alwin. There is an old Norse proverb which prescribes "Lie
for lie, laughter for laughter, gift for gift;" so, while he accepted
these favors, Tyrker began to look around for some way to repay them.

His gaze wandered over fabrics and furs and weapons, till it finally
fell upon the slaves' bench. "Donnerwetter!" he said, setting down his
horn. "To my mind it has just come that Leif a cook-boy is desirous of,
now that Hord is drowned."

The girl saw his purpose, and nodded quickly. "It is unlikely that you
can make a better bargain anywhere."

She turned to examine the slaves, and her eyes immediately encountered
Alwin's. She did not blush; she looked him up and down critically, as if
he were a piece of armor, or a horse. It was he who flushed, with sudden
shame and anger, as he realized that in the eyes of this beautiful Norse
maiden he was merely an animal put up for sale.

"Yonder is a handsome thrall," she said; "he looks as though his
strength were such that he could stand something."

"True it is that he cannot a lame wolf be who with the pack from
Greenland is to run," Tyrker assented. "That it was, which to Hord was a
hindrance. For sport only, Egil Olafson under the water took him down
and held him there; and because to get away he was not strong enough, he
was drowned. But to me it seems that this one would bite. How dear would
this thrall be?"

"You would have to pay for him three marks of silver," said the trader.
"He is an English thrall, very strong and well-shaped." He came over to
where Alwin sat, and stood him up and turned him round and bent his
limbs, Alwin submitting as a caged tiger submits to the lash, and with
much the same look about his mouth.

Tyrker caught the look, and sat for a long while blinking doubtfully at
him. But he was a shrewd old fellow, and at last he drew his money-bag
from his girdle and handed it to the trader to be weighed. While this
was being done, he bade one of the servants strike off the boy's
fetters.

The trader paused, scales in hand, to remonstrate. "It is my advice that
you keep them on until you sail. I will not conceal it from you that he
has an unruly disposition. You will be lacking both your man and your
money."

The old man smiled quietly. "Ach, my friend," he said, "can you not
better read a face? Well is it to be able to read runes, but better yet
it is to know what the Lord has written in men's eyes." He signed to the
servant to go on, and in a moment the chains fell clattering on the
ground.

Alwin looked at him in amazement; then suddenly he realized what a kind
old face it was, for all its shrewdness and puny ugliness. The scowl
fell from him like another chain.

"I give you thanks," he said.

The wrinkled, tremulous old hand touched his shoulder with a kindly
pressure. "Good is it that we understand each other. _Nun_! Come. First
shall you go and Helga's horse lead, since it may be that with her one
hand she cannot manage him. Why do you in your face so red grow?"

Alwin grew still redder; but he could not tell the good old man that he
would rather follow a herd of unbroken steers all day, than walk one
mile before a beautiful young Amazon who looked at him as if he were a
dog. He mumbled something indistinctly, and hastened out after the
horses.

Helga rose stiffly from the pile of furs; it was evident that every new
motion revealed a new bruise to her, but she set her white teeth and
held her chin high in the air. When she had taken leave of the trader,
she walked out without a limp and vaulted into her saddle unaided. The
sunlight, glancing from her silver helm, fell upon her floating hair and
turned it into a golden glory that hid rents and stains, and redeemed
even the kirtle, which stopped at the knee.

As he helped the old man to mount, Alwin gazed at her with unwilling
admiration. Perhaps some day he would show her that he was not so
utterly contemptible as...

She made him an imperious gesture; he stalked haughtily forward, he took
his place at her bridle rein, and the three set forth.



CHAPTER III

A GALLANT OUTLAW


    Two are adversaries;
    The tongue is the bane of the head;
    Under every cloak
    I expect a hand.
        Ha'vama'l


For a while the road of the little party ran beside the brawling Nid,
whose shores were astir with activity and life. Here was a school of
splashing swimmers; there, a fleet of fishing-smacks; a provision-ship
loading for a cruise as consort to one of the great war vessels. They
passed King Olaf's ship-sheds, where fine new boats were building, and
one brilliantly-painted cruiser stood on the rollers all ready for the
launching. Along the opposite bank lay the camps of visiting Vikings,
with their long ships'-boats floating before them.

The road bent to the right, and wound along between the high fences that
shut in the old farm-like manors. Ail the houses had their gable-ends
faced to the front, like soldiers at drill, and little more than their
tarred roofs showed among the trees. Most of the commons between the
estates were enlivened by groups of gaily-ornamented booths. Many of
them were traders' stalls; but in one, over the heads of the laughing
crowd, Alwin caught a glimpse of an acrobat and a clumsy dancing bear;
while in another, a minstrel sang plaintive love ballads to a throng
that listened as breathlessly as leaves for a wind. The wild sweet
harp-music floated out and went with them far across the plain.

The road swerved still farther to the right, entering a wood of spicy
evergreens and silver-stemmed birches. In its green depths song-birds
held high carnival, and an occasional rabbit went scudding from hillock
to covert. From the south a road ran up and crossed theirs, on its way
to the fiord.

As they reached this cross-road, a horseman passed down it at a gallop.
He only glanced toward them; and all Alwin had time to see was that he
was young and richly dressed. But Helga started up with a cry.

"Sigurd! Tyrker, it was Sigurd!"

Slowly drawing rein, the old man blinked at her in bewilderment.
"Sigurd? Where? What Sigurd?"

"Our Sigurd--Leif's foster-son! Oh, ride after him! Shout!" She
stretched her white throat in calling, but the wind was against her.

"That is now impossible that Jarl Harald's son it should be," Tyrker
said soothingly. "On a Viking voyage he is absent. Besides, out of
breath it puts me fast to ride. Some one else have you mistaken. Three
years it has been since you have seen--"

"Then I will go myself!" She snatched the reins from Alwin, but Tyrker
caught her arm.

"Certain it is that you would be injured. If you insist, the thrall
shall go. He looks as though he would run well."

"But what message?" Alwin began.

Helga tried to stamp in her stirrups. "Will you stand there and talk?
Go!"

They were fast runners in those days, by all accounts. It is said that
there were men in Ireland and the North so swift-footed that no horse
could overtake them. In ten minutes Alwin stood at the horseman's side,
red, dripping, and furious.

The stranger was a gallant young cavalier, with floating yellow locks
and a fine high-bred face. His velvet cloak was lined with ermine, his
silk tunic seamed with gold; he had gold embroidery on his gloves,
silver spurs to his heels, and a golden chain around his neck. Alwin
glared up at him, and hated him for his splendor, and hated him for his
long silken hair.

The rider looked down in surprise at the panting thrall with the shaven
head.

"What is your errand with me?" he asked.

It was not easy to explain, but Alwin framed it curtly: "If you are
Sigurd Haraldsson, a maiden named Helga is desirous that you should turn
back."

"I am Sigurd Haraldsson," the youth assented, "but I know no maiden in
Norway named Helga."

It occurred to Alwin that this Helga might belong to "the pack from
Greenland," but he kept a surly silence.

"What is the rest of her name?"

"If there is more, I have not heard it."

"Where does she live?"

"The devil knows!"

"Are you her father's thrall?"

"It is my bad luck to be the captive of some Norse robber."

The straight brows of the young noble slanted into a frown. Alwin met it
with a black scowl. Suddenly, while they faced each other, glowering, an
arrow sped out of the thicket a little way down the road, and whizzed
between them. A second shaft just grazed Alwin's head; a third carried
away a tress of Sigurd's fair hair. Instantly after, a man crashed out
of the underbrush and came running toward them, throwing down a bow and
drawing a sword as he ran.

Forgetting that no weapon hung there now, Alwin's hand flew to his side.
Young Haraldsson, catching only the gesture, stayed him peremptorily.

"Stand back,--they were aimed at me! It is my quarrel." He threw himself
from his saddle, and his blade flashed forth like a sunbeam.

Evidently there was no need of explanations between the two. The instant
they met, that instant their swords crossed; and from the first clash,
the blades darted back and forth and up and down like governed
lightnings. Alwin threw a quieting arm around the neck of the startled
horse, and settled himself to watch.

Before many minutes, he forgot that he had been on the point of
quarrelling with Sigurd Haraldsson. Anything more deft or graceful than
the swiftness and ease with which the young noble handled his weapon he
had never imagined. Admiration crowded out every other feeling.

"I hope that he will win!" he muttered presently. "By St. George, I hope
that he will win!" and his soothing pats on the horse's neck became
frantic slaps in his excitement.

The archer was not a bad fighter, and just now he was a desperate
fighter. Round and round went the two. A dozen times they shifted their
ground; a dozen times they changed their modes of attack and defence. At
last, Sigurd's weapon itself began to change from one hand to the other.
Without abating a particle of his swiftness, in the hottest of the fray
he made a feint with his left. Before the other could recover from
parrying it, the weapon leaped back to his right, darted like a hissing
snake at the opening, and pierced the archer's shoulder.

He fell, snarling, and lay with Sigurd's point pricking his throat and
Sigurd's foot pressing his breast.

"I think you understand now that you will not stand over my scalp,"
young Haraldsson said sternly. "Now you have got what you deserved. You
managed to get me banished, and you shot three arrows at me to kill me;
and all because of what? Because in last fall's games I shot better than
you! It was in my mind that if ever I caught you I would drive a knife
through you."

He kicked him contemptuously as he took his foot away.

"Sneaking son of a wolf," he finished, "I despise myself that I cannot
find it in my heart to do it, now that you are at my mercy; but I have
not been wont to do such things, and you are not worth beginning on.
Crawl on your miserable way."

While the archer staggered off, clutching his shoulder, Sigurd came back
to his horse, wiping his sword composedly. "It was obliging of you to
stay and hold High-flyer," he said, as he mounted. "If he had been
frightened away, I should have been greatly hindered, for I have many
miles before me."

That brought them suddenly back to their first topic; but now Alwin
handled it with perfect courtesy.

"Let me urge you again to turn back with me. It is not easy for me to
answer your questions, for this morning is the first time I have seen
the maiden; but she is awaiting you at the cross-roads with the old man
she calls Tyrker, and--"

"Tyrker!" cried Sigurd Haraldsson. "Leif's foster-father had that name.
It is not possible that it is my little foster-sister from Greenland!"

"I have heard them mention Greenland, and also the name of Leif," Alwin
assured him.

Sigurd smote his knee a resounding thwack. "Strangest of wonders is the
time at which this news comes! Here have I just been asking for Leif in
the guardroom of the King's house; and because they told me he was away
on the King's business, I was minded to ride straight out of the city.
Catch hold of the strap on my saddle-girth, and we will hurry."

He wheeled Highflyer and spurred him forward. Alwin would not make use
of the strap, but kept his place at the horse's shoulder without much
difficulty. Only the pace did not leave him breath for questions, and he
wished to ask a number.

It was not long, however, before most of his questions were asked and
answered for him. Rounding a curve, they came face to face with the
riders, who had evidently tired of waiting at the cross-roads. Tyrker,
peering anxiously ahead, uttered an exclamation of relief at the sight
of Alwin, whom he had evidently given up as a runaway. Helga welcomed
Sigurd in a delighted cry.

The young Northman greeted her with frank affection, and saluted Tyrker
almost as fondly.

"This meeting gladdens me more than tongue can tell. I do not see how it
was that I did not recognize you as I passed. And yet those garments,
Helga! By St. Michael, you look well-fitted to be the Brynhild we used
to hear about!"

Helga's fair face flushed, and Alwin smiled inwardly. He was curious to
know what the young Viking would do if the young Amazon boxed his ears,
as he thought likely. But it seemed that Helga was only ungentle toward
those whom she considered beneath her friendliness. While she motioned
Alwin with an imperious gesture to hand her the rein she had dropped,
she responded good-naturedly to Sigurd: "Nay, now, my comrade, you will
not be mean enough to scold about my short kirtle, when it was you who
taught me to do the things that make a short kirtle necessary! Have you
forgotten how you used to steal me away from my embroidery to hunt with
you?"

"By no means," Sigurd laughed. "Nor how Thorhild scolded when we came
back! I would give a ring to know what she would say if she were here
now. It is my belief that you would get a slap, for all your warlike
array."

Helga's spur made her horse prance and rear defiantly. "Thorhild is not
here, nor do I expect that she will ever rule over me again. She struck
me once too often, and I ran away to Leif. For two years now I have
lived almost like the shield-maidens we were wont to talk of. Oh,
Sigurd, I have been so happy!" She threw back her head and lifted her
beautiful face up to the sunlit sky and the fresh wind. "So free and so
happy!"

Alwin thrilled with sudden sympathy. He understood then that it was not
boldness, nor mere waywardness, that made her what she was. It was the
Norse blood crying out for adventure and open air and freedom. It did
not seem strange to him, as he thought of it. It occurred to him, all at
once, as a stranger thing that all maidens did not feel so,--that there
were any who would be kept at spinning, like prisoners fettered in
trailing gowns.

Tyrker nodded in answer to Sigurd's look of amazement. "The truth it is
which the child speaks. Over winters, stays she at the King's house with
one of the Queen's women, who is a friend of Leif; and during the
summer, voyages she makes with me. But to me it appears that of her we
have spoken enough. Tell to us how it comes that you are in Norway,
and--whoa! Steady!--Wh--o--a!"

"And tell us also that you will ride on to the camp with us now," Helga
put in, as Tyrker was obliged to transfer his attention to his restless
horse. "Rolf Erlingsson and Egil Olafsson, whom you knew in Greenland,
are there, and all the crew of the 'Sea-Deer'."

"The 'Sea-Deer'!" ejaculated Sigurd. "Surely Leif has got rid of his
ship, now that he is in King Olaf's guard."

The backing and sidling and prancing of Tyrker's horse forced him to
leave this also to Helga.

"Certainly he has not got rid of his ship. When he does not follow King
Olaf to battle with her, Tyrker takes her on trading voyages, and she
lies over-winter in the King's ship-shed. There are forty of the crew,
counting me,--there is no need for you to smile, I can take the helm and
stand a watch as well as any. Can I not, Tyrker?"

The old man relaxed his vigilance long enough to nod assent; whereupon
his horse took instant advantage of the slackened rein to bolt off
homeward, despite all the swaying and sawing of the rider.

That set the whole party in motion once more.

"You will come with me to camp, Sigurd my comrade?" Helga urged. "It is
but a little way, on the bank across the river. Come, if only for a
short time."

Sigurd gathered up his rein with a smile and a sigh together. "I will
give you a favorable answer to that. It seems that you have not heard of
the mishap that has befallen me. The lawman has banished me from the
district."

It pleased Alwin to hear that he was likely to see more of the young
Norseman. Helga was filled with amazement. On the verge of starting, she
stopped her horse to stare at him.

"It must be that you are jesting," she said at last. "You, who are the
most amiable person in the world,--it is not possible that you can have
broken the law!"

Sigurd laughed ruefully. "In my district I am not spoken of as amiable,
just now. Yet there is little need to take it heavily, my foster-sister.
I have done nothing that is dishonorable,--should I dare to come before
Leif's face if I had? It will blow over in time to come."

Helga leaned from her saddle to press his hand in a friendly grasp. "You
have come to the right place, for nowhere in the world could you be more
welcome. Only wait and see how Rolf and Egil will receive you!"

She gave the thrall a curt shake of her head, as he stepped to her
bridle-rein; and they rode off.

As Helga had said, the camp was not far away. Once across the river,
they turned to the left and wound along the rolling woody banks toward
the fiord. Entering a thicket of hazel-bushes on the crest of the gentle
slope, they were met by faint sounds of shouting and laughter. Emerging
into a green little valley, the camp lay before them.

Half a dozen wooden booths tented over with gay striped linen and
adorned with streaming flags, a leaping fire, a pile of slain deer, a
string of grazing horses, and a throng of brawny men skinning the deer,
chasing the horses, scouring armor, drinking, wrestling, and
lounging,--these were Alwin's first confused impressions.

"There it is!" cried Helga. "Saw you ever a prettier spot? There is
Tyrker under that ash tree. And there,--do you remember that black mane?
Yonder, bending over that shield? That is Egil Olafsson. Now it comes to
my mind again! To-night we go to a feast at the King's house; that is
why he is so busy. And yonder! Yonder is Rolf wrestling. He is the
strongest man in Greenland; did you know that? Even Valbrand cannot
stand against him. Whistle now as you were wont to for the hawks, and
see if they will not remember."

They swept down the slope, the high sweet notes rising clear above the
clatter. One man glanced up in surprise, then another and another; then
suddenly every man dropped what he was doing, and leaped up with shouts
of greeting and welcome. Sigurd disappeared behind a hedge of yellow
heads and waving hands.

Alwin felt himself clutched eagerly. "Donnerwetter, but I have waited a
long time for you!" said the old German, short-breathed and panting.
"That beast was like the insides of me to have out-shaken. Bring to me a
horn of ale; but first give me your shoulder to yonder booth."



CHAPTER IV

IN A VIKING LAIR

    Leaving in the field his arms,
    Let no man go 
    A fool's length forward:
    For it is hard to know
    When, on his way,
    A man may need his weapon.
         Ha'vama'l

The camp lay red in the sunset light, and the twilight hush had fallen
upon it so that one could hear the sleepy bird-calls in the woods
around, and the drowsy murmur of the river. Sigurd lay on his back under
a tree, staring up into the rustling greenery. From the booth set apart
for her, Helga came out dressed for the feast. She had replaced her
scarlet kirtle and hose by garments of azure-blue silk, and changed her
silver helmet for a golden diadem such as high-born maidens wore on
state occasions; but that was her only ornament, and her skirt was no
longer than before. Sigurd looked at her critically.

"It does not appear to me that you are very well dressed for a feast,"
said he. "Where are the bracelets and gold laces suitable to your rank?
It looks ill for Leif's generosity, if that is the finest kirtle you
own."

"That is unfairly spoken," Helga answered quickly. "He would dress me in
gold if I wished it; it is I who will not have it so. Have you forgotten
my hatred against clothes so fine that one must be careful of them? But
this was to be expected," she added, flushing with displeasure; "since
the Jarl's son has lived in Normandy, a maiden from a Greenland farm
must needs look mean to him."

She was turning away, but he leaped up and caught her by her shoulders
and shook her good-naturedly. "Now are you as womanish as your bondmaid.
You know that all the gold on all the women in Normandy is not so
beautiful as one lock of this hair of yours."

At least Helga was womanish enough to smile at this. "Now I understand
why it is that men call you Sigurd Silver-Tongue," she laughed. Suddenly
she was all earnestness again. "Nay, but, Sigurd, tell me this,--I do
not care how you scold about my dress,--tell me that you do not despise
me for it, or for being unlike other maidens."

Sigurd's grasp slipped from her shoulders down to her hands, and shook
them warmly. "Despise you, Helga my sister? Despise you for being the
bravest comrade and the truest friend a man ever had?"

She grew rosy red with pleasure. "If that is your feeling, I am well
content."

She took a step toward the place where her horse was tethered, and
looked back regretfully. "It seems inhospitable to leave you like this.
Will you not come with us, after all?"

Sigurd threw himself down again with an emphatic gesture of refusal. "I
like better to be left so than to be left in a mound with my head cut
off, which is what would happen were an outlaw to visit the King
uninvited."

"I shall not deny that that would be disagreeable," Helga assented. "But
do not let your mishap stand in the way of your joy. Leif has great
favor with King Olaf; there is no doubt in my mind that he will be able
to plead successfully for you."

"I hope so, with all my heart," Sigurd murmured. "When all brave men are
fighting abroad or serving the King at home, it is great shame for me to
be idling here." And he sighed heavily as Helga passed out of hearing.

As she went by the largest of the booths, which was the sleeping-house
of the steersman Valbrand and more than half the crew, Alwin came out of
the door and stood looking listlessly about. He had spent the afternoon
scouring helmets amid a babble of directions and fault-finding, accented
by blows. Helga did not see him; but he gazed after her, wondering idly
what sort of a mistress she was to the young bond-girl who was running
after her with the cloak she had forgotten,--wondering also what there
was in the girl's brown braids that reminded him of his mother's little
Saxon waiting-maid Editha.

The sound of a deep-drawn breath made him turn, to find himself face to
face with a young mail-clad Viking, in whose shaggy black locks he
recognized the Egil Olafsson whom Helga had that morning 'pointed out.
But it was not the surprise of the meeting that made Alwin leap suddenly
backward into the shelter of the doorway; it was the look that he caught
in the other's dark face,--a look so full of hate and menace that,
instead of being strangers meeting for the first time, one would have
supposed them lifelong enemies.

Still eying him, Egil said slowly in a voice that trembled with passion:
"So you are the English thrall,--and looking after her already! It seems
that Skroppa spoke some truth--" He broke off abruptly, and stood
glaring, his hand moving upward to his belt.

For once Alwin was fairly dazed. "Either this fellow has gotten out of
his wits," he muttered, crossing himself, "or else he has mistaken me
for some--"

He had not time to finish his sentence. Young Olafsson's fingers had
closed upon the haft of his knife; he drew it with a fierce cry: "But I
will make the rest of it a lie!" Throwing himself upon Alwin, he bore
him over backwards across the threshold.

It is likely that that moment would have seen the end of Alwin, if it
had not happened that Valbrand the steersman was in the booth, arraying
himself for the feast. He was a gigantic warrior, with a face seamed
with scars and as hard as the battle-axe at his side. He caught Egil's
uplifted arm and wrested the blade from his grasp.

"It is not likely that I will allow Leif's property to be damaged, Egil
the Black. Would you choke him? Loose him, or I will send you to the
Troll, body and bones!"

Egil rose reluctantly. Alwin leaped up like a spring released from a
weight.

"What has he done," demanded Valbrand, "that you should so far forget
the law as to attack another man's thrall?"

Instead of bursting into the tirade Alwin expected, Egil flushed and
looked away. "It is enough that I am not pleased with his looks," he
said sullenly.

Valbrand tossed him his knife with a scornful grunt. "Go and get sense!
Is he yours, that you may slay him because you dislike the tilt of his
nose? Go dress yourself. And you," he added, with a nod over his
shoulder at Alwin, "do you take yourself out of his sight somewhere. It
is unwisdom to tempt a hungry dog with meat that one would keep."

"If I had so much as a hunting-knife," Alwin cried furiously, "I swear
by all the saints of England, I would not stir--"

Valbrand wasted no time in argument. He seized Alwin and threw him out
of the door, with energy enough to roll him far down the slope.

The force with which he struck inclined Alwin to stay where he was for a
while; and gradually the coolness and the quietness about him soothed
him into a more reasonable temper. Egil Olafsson was mad; there could be
no question of that. Undoubtedly it was best to follow Valbrand's advice
and keep out of his way,--at least until he could secure a weapon with
which to defend himself. He stretched himself comfortably in the soft,
dewy grass and waited until the revellers, splendid in shining mail and
gay-hued mantles, clanked out to their horses and rode away. When the
last of them shouted his farewell to Sigurd and disappeared amid the
shadows of the wood-path, Alwin arose and walked slowly back to the
deserted camp.

Even the sunset light had left it now; a soft grayness shut it in, away
from the world. The air was full of night-noises; and high in the pines
a breeze was whispering softly. Very softly and sweetly, from somewhere
among the booths, the voice of the bond-girl arose in a plaintive
English ballad.

Alwin recognized the melody with a throb that was half of pleasure, half
of pain. In the old days, Editha had sung that song. Poor little
gentle-hearted Editha! The last time he had seen her, she had been borne
past him, white and unconscious, in the arms of one of the marauding
Danes. He shook himself fiercely to drive off the memory. Turning the
corner of Helga's booth, he came suddenly upon the singer, a slender
white-robed figure leaning in the shadow of the doorway. Sigurd still
lounged under the trees, half dozing, half listening.

As the thrall stepped out of the shadow into the moonlight, the singer
sprang to her feet, and the song merged into a great cry.

"My lord Alwin!"

It was Editha herself. Running to meet him, she dropped on her knees
before him and began to kiss his hands and cry over them. "Oh, my dear
lord," she sobbed, "you are so changed! And your hair--your beautiful
hair! Oh, it is well that Earl Edmund and your lady mother are dead,--it
would break their hearts, as it does mine!" Forgetting her own plight,
she wept bitterly over his, though he tried with every gentle word to
soothe her.

It was a sad meeting; it could not be otherwise. The memory of their
last terrible parting, the bondage in which they found each other, the
shameful, hopeless future that stretched before them,--it was all full
of bitterness. When Editha went in at last, her poor little throat was
bursting with sobs. Alwin sank down on the trunk of a fallen tree and
buried his head in his hands, and the first groan that his troubles had
wrung from him was forced now from his brave lips.

He had forgotten Sigurd's presence. In their preoccupation, neither of
them had noticed the young Viking watching them curiously. Now Alwin
started like a colt when a hand fell lightly on his shoulder. "It
appears to me," came in Sigurd's voice, "that a man should be merry when
he has just found a friend."

Alwin looked up at him with eyes full of savage despair.

"Merry! Would you be merry, had you found Helga the drudge of an English
camp?" He shook off the other's hand with a fierce motion.

But Sigurd answering instantly, "No, I would look even blacker than you,
if that were possible," the thrall was half appeased.

The young Viking dropped down beside him, and for a while they sat in
silence, staring away where the moonlit river showed between the trees.
At last Sigurd said dreamily: "It came to my mind, while you two were
talking, how unevenly the Fates deal things. It appears, from what the
maiden said, that you are the son of an English jarl who has often
fought the Northmen. Now I am the son of a Norwegian jarl who has not a
few times met the English in battle. It would have been no more unlikely
than what has happened had I been the captive and you the victor."

"That is true," said Alwin slowly. He did not say more, but in some odd
way the idea comforted and softened him. Neither of the young men turned
his eyes from the river toward the other, yet in some way something
friendly crept into their silence.

After a while Sigurd said, still without looking around, "It seems to me
that the right-minded thing for me in this matter is to do what I should
desire you to do if you were in my place; therefore I offer you my
friendship."

Something blurred the bright river for an instant from Alwin's sight. "I
give you thanks," he said huskily. "Save Editha, I have not a friend in
the world."

He hesitated a while; then slowly, bit by bit, he set forth the story
that he had never expected to unfold to Northern ears. "The Danes set
fire to my father's castle, and he was burned with many of my kinsmen.
The robbers came in the night, and a Danish churl opened the gates to
them,--though he had been my father's man for four seasons. It was from
him that I learned to speak the Northern tongue. They took me while I
slept, bound me, and carried me out to their boats. They carried out
also the young maidens who attended my mother,--Editha among them,--and
not a few of the youth of the household, all that they chose for
captives. They took out all the valuables that they wanted. After that,
they threw great bales of hay into the hall, and set fire to them,
and--"

"The bloody wolves!" Sigurd burst out. "Did they not offer your mother
to go out in safety?"

"Nay, they had the most hatred against her." The bearing of his head
grew more haughty. "My mother was a princess of the blood of Alfred."

It happened that Sigurd had heard of that great monarch. His face
kindled with enthusiasm.

"Alfred! He who got the victory over the Danes? Small wonder they did
not love his kin after they had known his cunning! I know a fine song
about him,--how he went alone into the Danish camp, though they were
hunting him to kill him; and while they thought him a simple--minded
minstrel, he learned all their secrets. By my troth, that is good blood
to have in one's veins! Were I English, I would rather be his kinsman
than Ethelred's."

He stared at Alwin with glowing eyes; they were facing each other now.
Suddenly he stretched out his hand.

"It is naught but a piece of bad luck that you are Leif's thrall. It
might just as easily have happened that I were in your place. Now I will
make a bargain with you that hereafter I will remember this, and never
hold your thraldom against you."

Such a concession as that, few of the proud Viking race were generous
enough to make. Alwin could not but be moved by it. He took the
outstretched hand in a hard grip.

"Will you do that?" he said; and it seemed for a time as though he could
not find words to answer. At last he spoke: "If you will do that, I
promise on my side that I will forgive your Northern blood and your
lordship over me, and love you as my own brother."




CHAPTER V

THE IRE OF A SHIELD-MAIDEN

    With insult or derision
    Treat thou never
    A guest or wayfarer;
    They often little know,
    Who sit within,
    Of what race they are who come.
         Ha'vama'l

Alwin was sitting on the ground in front of the provision-shed, grinding
meal on a small stone hand-mill, when Editha came to seek him.

"If it please you, my lord--"

He broke into a bitter laugh. "By Saint George, that fits me well! 'If
it please you,' and 'my lord,' to a short-haired, callous-handed hound
of a slave!"

Tears filled her eyes, but her gentle mouth was as obstinate as gentle
mouths can often be. "Have they drawn Earl Edmund's blood out of you?
Until they have done that, you will be my lord. Your lady mother in
heaven would curse me for a traitor if I denied your nobility."

Alwin ground out a resigned sigh with his last handful of meal. "Go on
then, if you must. We spoke enough of the matter last night. Only see to
it that no one hears you. I warn you that I shall kill the first who
laughs,--and who could help laughing?"

She was too wise to answer that. Instead, she motioned over her shoulder
toward the group of late-risen revellers who were lounging under the
trees, breaking their fast with an early meal. "Tyrker bids you come and
serve the food."

"If it please me?"

"My dear lord, I pray you give over all bitterness. I pray you be
prudent toward them. I have not been a shield-maiden's thrall for nearly
a year without learning something."

"Poor little dove in a hawk's nest! Certainly I think you have learned
to weep!"

"You need not pity me thus, Lord Alwin. It is likely that my mistress
even loves me in her own way. She has given me more ornaments than she
keeps for herself. She would slay anyone who spoke harshly to me. What
is it if now and then she herself strikes me? I have had many a blow
from your mother's nurse. I do not find that I am much worse than
before. No, no; my trouble is all for you. My dearest lord, I implore
you not to waken their anger. They have tempers so quick,--and hands
even quicker."

Remembering his encounter with Egil the evening before, Alwin's eyes
flared up hotly. But he would make no promises, as he arose to answer
the summons.

The little maid carried an anxious heart to her task of mending Helga's
torn kirtle.

No one seemed to notice the young thrall when he came among them and
began to refill the empty cups. The older men, sprawling on the
sun-flecked grass and over the rude benches, were still drowsy from too
deep soundings in too many mead horns. The four young people were
talking together. They sat a little apart in the shade of some birch
trees which served as rests for their backs,--Helga enthroned on a bit
of rock, Rolf and Sigurd lounging on either side of her, the black-maned
Egil stretched at her feet. Between them a pair of lean wolf-hounds
wandered in and out, begging with glistening eyes and poking noses for
each mouthful that was eaten,--except when a motion of Helga's hand
toward a convenient riding-switch made them forget hunger for the
moment.

"I wonder to hear that Leif was not at the feast last night," Sigurd was
saying, as he sipped his ale in the leisurely fashion which some of the
old sea-rovers in the distance condemned as French and foolish.

Swallowing enough of the smoked meat in her mouth to make speaking
practicable, Helga answered: "He will be away two days yet; did I not
tell you? He has gone south with a band of guardsmen to convert a chief
to Christianity."

"Then Leif himself has turned Christian?" Sigurd exclaimed in
astonishment. "The son of the pagan Eric a Christian! Now I understand
how it is that he has such favor with King Olaf, for all that he comes
of outlawed blood. In Wisby, men thought it a great wonder, and spoke of
him as 'Leif the Lucky,' because he had managed to get rid of the curse
of his race."

Rolf the Wrestler shook his head behind his uplifted goblet. He was an
odd-looking youth, with chest and shoulders like the forepart of an ox,
and a face as mild and gently serious as a lamb's. As he put down the
curious gilded vessel, he said in the soft voice that matched his face
so well and his body so ill: "If you have a boon to ask of your
foster-father, comrade, it is my advice that you forget all such pagan
errors as that story of the curse. Egil, here, came near being spitted
on Leif's sword for merely mentioning Skroppa's name."

Alwin recognized the name with a start. Egil scowled in answer to
Sigurd's curious glance.

"Odin's ravens are not more fond of telling news, than you," the Black
One growled. "At meal-time I have other uses for my jaws than babbling.
Thrall, bring me more fish."

Alwin waited long enough to possess himself of a sharp bronze knife that
lay among the dishes; then he advanced, alertly on his guard, and
shovelled more herrings upon the flat piece of hard bread that served as
a plate. Egil, however, noticed him no more than he did the flies
buzzing around his food. Whatever the cause of their enmity, it was
evidently a secret.

The English youth was retiring in surprise, when Rolf took it into his
head to accost him. The wrestler pointed to a couple of large flat
stones that he had placed, one on top of the other, beside him. "This is
very tough bread that you have given me, thrall," he said reproachfully.

Their likeness to bread was not great, and the jest struck Alwin as
silly. He retorted angrily: "Do you suppose that my wits were cut off
with my hair, so that I cannot tell stones from bread?"

Not a flicker stirred the seriousness of Rolf's blue eyes. "Stones?" he
said. "I do not know what you mean. Can they be stones that I am able to
treat like this?" His fist arose in the air, doubled itself into the
likeness of a sledge-hammer, and fell in a mighty blow. The upper stone
lay in fragments.

Whereupon Alwin realized that it had all been a flourish to impress him.
So, though unquestionably impressed, he refused to show it. A second
time he was turning his back on them, when Helga stopped him.

"You must bring something that I want, first. In the northeast corner of
the provision shed, was it not, Sigurd?"

Young Haraldsson was scrambling to his feet in futile grabs after one of
the hounds that was making off with his herring, but he nodded back over
his shoulder. Helga looked from one to the other of her companions with
an ecstatic smack of her lips. "Honey," she informed them. "Sigurd ran
across a jar of it last night. That pig of an Olver yonder hid it on the
highest shelf. Very likely the goldsmith's daughter gave it to him and
it was his intention to keep it all for himself. We will put a trick
upon him. Bring it quickly, thrall. Yet have a care that he does not see
it as you pass him. That is he with the bandaged head. If he looks
sharply at you, hide the jar with your arm and it is likely he will
think that you have been stealing some food for yourself, and be too
sleepy to care."

Lord Alwin of Northumbria lost sight of the lounging figures about him,
lost sight of Sigurd chasing the circling hound, lost sight of
everything save the imperious young person before him. He stared at her
as though he could not believe his ears. She waved him away; but he did
not move.

"Let him think that _I_ am _stealing_!" he managed to gasp at last.

The grass around Helga's foot stirred ominously.

"I have told you that he is too sleepy to care. If he threatens to flog
you, I promise that I will interfere. Coward, what are you afraid of?"

She caught her breath at the blazing of his face. He said between his
clenched teeth: "I will not let him think that I would steal so much as
one dried herring,--were I starving!"

The fire shot out of Helga's beautiful eyes. Egil and the Wrestler
sprang up with angry exclamations; but words would not suffice Helga.
Leaping to her feet, she caught up the riding-whip from the grass beside
her and lashed it across the thrall's face with all her might. A bar of
livid red was kindled like a flame along his cheek.

"You are cracking the face of Leif's property," Rolf murmured in mild
remonstrance.

Egil laughed, a hateful gloating laugh, and settled himself against a
tree to see the finish. As Helga's arm was flung up the second time, the
thrall leaped upon her and tore the whip from her grasp and broke it in
pieces. He would that he might have broken her as well; he thirsted
to,--when he caught sight of the laughing Egil, and everything else was
blotted out of his vision. Without a sound, but with the animal passion
for killing upon his white face, he wheeled and leaped upon the Black
One, crushing him, pinioning him against the tree, strangling him with
the grip of his hands.




CHAPTER VI

THE SONG OF SMITING STEEL

    To his friend
    A man should be a friend,--
    To him and to his friend;
    But no man
    Should be the friend
    Of his foe's friend.
         Ha'vama'l


In the madness of his rush, Alwin blundered. Springing upon Egil from
the left, he left his enemy's right arm free. Instantly this arm began
forcing and jamming its way downward across Egil's body. Should it find
what it sought--!

Alwin saw what was coming. He set his teeth and struggled desperately;
but he could not prevent it. Another moment, and the Black One's fingers
had closed upon his sword-hilt; the blade hissed into the air. Only an
instant wrenching away, and a lightning leap aside, saved the thrall
from being run through. His short bronze knife was no match for a sword.
He gave himself up for lost, and stiffened himself to die bravely,--as
became Earl Edmund's son. He had yet to learn that there are crueler
things than sword-thrusts.

As Egil advanced with a jeering laugh, Helga caught his sleeve; and Rolf
laid an iron hand upon his shoulder.

"Think what you do!" the Wrestler admonished. "This will make the third
of Leif's thralls that you have slain; and you have no blood-money to
pay him."

"Shame on you, Egil Olafsson!" cried Helga. "Would you stain your
honorable sword with a thing so foul as thrall-blood?"

Rolf's grip brought Egil to a standstill. The contempt in Helga's words
was reflected in his face. He sheathed his sword with a scornful
gesture.

"You speak truth. I do not know how it was that I thought to do a thing
so unworthy of me. I will leave Valbrand to draw the fellow's blood with
a stirrup leather."

He turned away, and the others followed. Those of the crew who had
raised their muddled heads to see what the trouble was, laid them down
again with grunts of disappointment. Alwin was left alone, untouched.

Yet truly his anguish would not have been greater had they cut him in
pieces. Without knowing what he did, he sprang after them, crying
hoarsely: "Cowards! Churls! What know you of my blood? Give me a weapon
and prove me. Or cast yours aside,--man to man." His voice broke with
his passion and the violence of his heart-beats.

But the mocking laughter that burst out died in a sudden hush. A moment
before, Sigurd had concluded his pursuit of the thieving hound and
rejoined the group,--in time to gather something of what had passed. The
instant Alwin ceased, he stepped out and placed himself at the young
thrall's side. He was no longer either the courteous Sigurd
Silver-Tongue or Sigurd the merry comrade; his handsome head was thrown
up with an air of authority which reminded all present that Sigurd, the
son of the famous Jarl Harald, was the highest-born in the camp.

He said sternly: "It seems to me that you act like fools in this matter.
Can you not see that he is no more thrall-born than you are? Or do you
think that ill luck can change a jarl's son into a dog? He shall have a
chance to prove his skill. I myself will strive against him, to any
length he chooses. And what I have thought it worth while to do, let no
one else dare scorn!"

He unbuckled his own gold-mounted weapon and forced it into Alwin's
hands, then turned authoritatively to the Wrestler: "Rolf, if you count
yourself my friend, lend me your sword."

It was yielded him silently; and they stepped out face to face, the
young noble and the young thrall. But before their steel had more than
clashed, Egil came between and knocked up their blades with his own.

"It is enough," he said gruffly. "What Sigurd Haraldsson will do, I will
not disdain. I will meet you honorably, thrall. But you need not sue for
mercy." A gleam of that strange groundless hatred played over his savage
face.

It did not daunt Alwin; it only helped to warm his blood. "This steel
shall melt sooner than I ask for quarter!" he cried defiantly, springing
at his enemy.

_Whish-clash_! The song of smiting steel rang through the little valley.
The spectators drew back out of the way. Again the half-drunken loungers
rose upon their elbows.

They were well matched, the two. If Alwin lacked any of the Black One's
strength, he made it up in skill and quickness. The bright steel began
to fly fast and faster, until its swish was like the venomous hiss of
serpents. The color came and went in Helga's cheek; her mouth worked
nervously. Sigurd's eyes were fixed upon the two like glowing lamps, as
to and fro they went with vengeful fury. In all the valley there was no
sound but the fierce clash and clatter of the swords. The very trees
seemed to hold their breath to listen.

Egil uttered a panting gasp of triumph; his, blade had bitten flesh. A
widening circle of red stained the shoulder of Alwin's white tunic. The
thrall's lips set in a harder line; his blows became more furious, as if
pain and despair gave him an added strength. Heaving his sword high in
the air, he brought it down with mighty force on Egil's blade. The next
instant the Black One held a useless weapon, broken within a finger of
the hilt.

A murmur rose from the three watchers. Helga's hand moved toward her
knife.

Rolf shook his head gently. "Fair play," he reminded her; and she fell
back.

Tossing away his broken blade, Egil folded his arms across his breast
and waited in scornful silence; but in a moment Alwin also was
empty-handed.

"I do no murder," he panted. "Man to man we will finish it."

With lowered heads and watchful eyes, like beasts crouching for a
spring, they moved slowly around the circle. Then, like angry bears,
they grappled; each grasping the other below the shoulder, and striving
by sheer strength of arm to throw his enemy.

Only the blood that mounted to their faces, the veins that swelled out
on their bare arms, told of the strain and struggle. So evenly were they
matched, that from a little distance it looked as if they were braced
motionless. Their heels ground deep into the soft sod. Their breath
began to come in labored gasps. It could not last much longer; already
the great drops stood on Alwin's forehead. Only a spurt of fury could
save him.

Suddenly, in changing his hold, Egil grasped the other's wounded
shoulder. The grip was torture,--a spur to a fainting horse. The blood
surged into Alwin's eyes; his muscles stiffened into iron. Egil swayed,
staggered, and fell headlong, crashing.

Mad with pain, Alwin knelt on his heaving breast. "If I had a sword," he
gasped; "if I had a sword!"

Shaken and stunned, Egil still laughed scornfully. "What prevents you
from getting your sword? I shall not run away. Do you think it matters
to me how soon my death-day comes?"

Alwin was still crazy with pain. He snatched the bronze knife from his
belt and laid it against Egil's throat. Sigurd's brow darkened, but no
one spoke or moved,--least of all, Egil; his black eyes looked back
unshrinkingly.

It was their calmness that brought Alwin to himself. As he felt their
clear gaze, it came back to him what it meant to take a human life,--to
change a living breathing body like his own into a heap of still, dead
clay. His hand wavered and fell away. The passion died out of his heart,
and he arose.

"Sigurd Haraldsson," he said, "for what you have done for me, I give you
your friend's life."

Sigurd's fine face cleared.

"Only," Alwin added, "I think it right that he should explain the cause
of his enmity toward me, and--"

Egil leaped to his feet; his proud indifference flamed into sudden fury.
"That I will never do, though you tear out my tongue-roots!" he shouted.

Even his comrades regarded him in amazement.

Alwin tried a sneer. "It is my belief that you fear to speak of
Skroppa."

"Skroppa?" a chorus of. astonishment repeated. But only two scarlet
spots on Egil's cheeks showed that he heard them. He gave Alwin a long,
lowering look. "You should know by this time that I fear nothing."

Helga made an unfortunate attempt. "I think it is no more than
honorable, Egil, to tell him why you are his enemy."

Unconsciously she spoke of the thrall now as of an equal. He noticed it;
Egil also saw it. It seemed to enrage him beyond bearing.

"If you speak in his favor," he thundered, seizing her wrist, "I will
sheathe my knife in you!" But even before she had freed herself, and
Rolf and Sigurd had turned upon him, he realized that he had gone too
far. Leaving them abruptly, he went and stood a little way off with his
back toward them, his head bowed, his hands clenched, struggling with
himself.

For a long time no one spoke. Sigurd questioned with his eyes, and Rolf
answered by a shrug. Once, as Helga offered to approach the Black One,
Sigurd made a warning gesture. They waited in dead silence. While the
voices of the other men came to them faintly, and the insects chirped
about their feet, and the birds called in the trees above them.

At last Egil came slowly back, sullen-eyed and grim-mouthed. He held a
branch in his hands and was bending and breaking it fiercely. "It is
shame enough," he began after a while, "that any man should have had it
in his power to spare me. I wonder that I do not die of the disgrace!
But it would be a still fouler shame if, after he had spared my life, I
let myself keep a wolf's mind toward him." His eyes suddenly blazed out
at Alwin, but he controlled himself and went on. "The reason for my
enmity I will not tell; wild steers should not tear it out of me.
But,--" He stopped and drew a hard breath, and set his teeth afresh;
"but I will forego that enmity. It is more than my life is worth. It is
worth a dozen lives to him,--" his voice broke with rage,--"yet because
it is honorable, I will do it. If you, Sigurd Haraldsson, and you, Rolf,
will pledge your friendship to this man, I will swear him mine." It was
well that he had reached the end, for he could not have spoken another
syllable.

Bewilderment tied Alwin's tongue. Sigurd was the first to speak.

"That seems to me a fair offer; and half the condition is already
fulfilled. I clasped his hand last night."

Rolf answered with less promptness. "I say nothing against the
Englishman's courage or his skill; yet--I will not conceal it--even in
payment for a comrade's life, I do not like to give my friendship to one
of thrall-birth."

That loosened Alwin's tongue. "In my own country," he said haughtily,
"you would be done honor by a look from me. Editha will tell you that my
father was Earl of Northumbria, and my mother a princess of the royal
blood of Alfred."

Helga uttered an exclamation of surprise and interest; but he would not
deign to look at her. For a while longer Rolf hesitated, looking long
and strangely at Egil, and long and keenly at Sigurd. But at last he put
forth his huge paw.

"Alwin of England," he said slowly, "though you little know how much it
means, I offer you my hand and my friendship."

Alwin took it a little coldly. "I will not give you thanks for a forced
gift; yet I pledge you my faith in return."

Though his face still worked with passion, Egil's hand was next
extended. "However much I hate you, I swear that I will always act as
your friend."

In his secret heart Alwin murmured, "The Fiend take me if ever I turn my
back on your knife!" But aloud he merely repeated his former compact.

When it was finished, Sigurd laid an affectionate hand upon his
shoulder. "We cannot bind our friend-ship closer, but it is my advice
that you do not leave Helga out of the bargain. Truer friend man never
had."

The bar across Alwin's cheek grew fiery with his redder flush. He stood
before her, rigid and speechless. Helga too blushed deeply; but there
was nothing of a girl's shyness about her. Her beautiful eyes looked
frankly back into his.

"I will not offer you my friendship," she said simply, "because I read
in your face that you have not forgiven the foul wrong I put upon
you,--not knowing that you were brave, high-born and accomplished. I can
understand your anger. Were I a man, and a woman should do such a thing
to me, it is likely that I should kill her on the spot. But it may be
that, in time to come, the memory will fade out of your mind, even as
the scar will fade from your face. Then, if you have seen that my
friendship is worth having, do you come and ask me for it, and I will
give it to you."

Before Alwin had time to think of an answer that would say neither more
nor less than he meant, she had walked away with Sigurd. He looked after
her with a scowl,--because he saw Egil watching him. But it surprised
him that, search as he would, he could nowhere find that great
soul-stirring rage which he had first felt against her.



CHAPTER VII

THE KING'S GUARDSMAN

    Something great
    Is not always to be given.
    Praise is often for a trifle bought.
         Ha'vama'l


It was the day after this brawl, when the guardsman Leif returned to
Nidaros. Alwin was brought to the notice of his new master in a most
unexpected fashion.

For one reason or another, the camp had been deserted early. At
day-break, Egil slung his bow across his back, provided himself with a
store of arrows and a bag of food, and set out for the mountains,--to
hunt, he told Tyrker, sullenly, as he passed. Two hours later, Valbrand
called for horses and hawks, and he and young Haraldsson, with Helga and
her Saxon waiting-maid, rode south for a day's sport in the pine woods.

Helga was the best comrade in the camp, whether one wished to go
hawking, or wanted a hand at fencing, or only asked for a quiet game of
chess by the leaping firelight. Her ringing laugh, her frank glance, and
her beautiful glowing face made all other maidens seem dull and
lifeless. Alwin dimly felt that hating her was going to be no easy task,
and he dared not raise his eyes as she rode past him. Instead he forced
himself to stare at the reflection of his scarred face in the silver
horn he was wiping; and he blew and blew upon the sparks of his anger.

Noticing it, Helga frowned regretfully. "I cannot blame him if he will
not speak to me," she said to Sigurd Haraldsson. "The nature of a
high-born man is such that a blow is like poison in his blood. It must
rankle and fester and break out before he can be healed. I do not think
he could have been more lordlike in his father's castle than he was
yesterday. Hereafter I shall treat him as honorably as I treat you, or
any other jarl-born man."

"In this you show yourself as high-minded as I have always thought you,"
answered Sigurd, turning toward her a face aglow with pleasure.

By the middle of the forenoon, everyone had gone, this way or that, to
hunt, or fish, or swim, or loiter about the city. There were left only a
man with a broken leg and a man with a sprained shoulder, throwing dice
on a bench in the sun; Alwin, whistling absently as he swept out the
sleeping-house; and Rolf the Wrestler sitting cross-legged under a tree,
sharpening his sword and humming snatches of his favorite song:

  "Hew'd we with the Hanger!
  Hard upon the time 't was
  When in Gothlandia going
  To give death to the serpent."

Rolf had declined to go hunting, on the plea of his horse's lameness.
Now, as he sat working and humming, he was presumably thinking up some
other diversion,--and the frequent glances he sent toward the thrall
seemed to indicate that the latter was to be concerned in it.

Finally Rolf called to Alwin: "Ho there, Englishman! Come hither and
tell me what you think of this for a weapon."

It needed no urging to make Alwin exchange a broom for a sword. He came
and lifted the great blade, and made passes in the air, and examined the
hilt of brass-studded wood.

"Saw I never a finer weapon," he admitted. "The hilt fits to one's hand
better than those gold things on Sigurd Haraldsson's sword. What is it
called?" For in those days a good blade bore a name as certainly as a
horse or a ship.

Rolf answered, in his soft voice: "It is called 'The Biter.' And it has
bitten not a few,--but it is fitting that others should speak of that.
Since the handle fits your grasp so well, will you not hold it a little
longer, while I borrow Long Lodin's weapon here, and we try each other's
skill?" He made a motion to rise, then checked himself and hesitated:
"Or it may be," he added gently, "that you do not care to strive against
one as strong as I?"

"Now, by St. Dunstan, you need not spare me thus!" Alwin cried hotly.
"Never have I turned my back on a challenge; and never will I, while the
red blood runs in my veins. Get your weapon quickly." He shook the big
blade in the air, and threw himself into a posture of defence.

But the Wrestler made no move to imitate him. He remained sitting and
slowly shaking his head.

"Those are fine words, and I say nothing against your sincerity; but my
appetite has changed. I will tell you what we will do instead. When your
work is done, we will betake ourselves across the river to Thorgrim
Svensson's camp and see the horse-fight he is going to have. He has a
black stallion of Keingala's breed, named Flesh-tearer, that it is not
necessary to prod with a stick. When he stands on his hind legs and
bites, you would swear he had as many feet as Odin's gray Sleipnir. Do
you not think that would be good entertainment?"

For a moment Alwin did not know what to think. He did not believe that
Rolf was afraid of him; and if the challenge was withdrawn, surely that
ended the matter. A horse fight? He had enjoyed no such spectacle as
that since the Michaelmas Day when his father had the great bear-baiting
in the pit at his English castle. And a ramble through the sun and the
wind, a taste of liberty--!

"It seems to me that it would be very enjoyable," he agreed. He started
eagerly to finish his work, when a thought caught him like a lariat and
whirled him back. "I am forgetting the yoke upon my neck, for the first
time in a twelvemonth! Is it allowed a dog of a slave to seek
entertainment?"

Mild displeasure stiffened Rolf's big frame. He said gravely: "It is
plain your thoughts do not do me much honor, since you think I have so
little authority. I tell you now that you will always be free to do
whatever I ask of you. If there is anything wrong in the doing, it is I
who must answer for it, not you. That is the law, while you are bound
and I am free."

A fresh sense of the shame of his thraldom broke over Alwin like a
burning wave. It benumbed him for a second; then he laughed with jeering
bitterness.

"It is true that I have become a dog. I can follow any man's whistle,
and it is the man who is responsible. I ask you to forget that for a
moment I thought myself a man." In sudden frenzy, he whirled the great
sword around his head and lunged at the pine tree behind Rolf, so that
the blade was left quivering in the trunk.

It was weather to gladden a man's heart,--a sunlit sky overhead, and a
fresh breeze blowing that set every drop of blood a-leaping with the
desire to walk, walk, walk, to the very rim of the world. The thrall
started out beside the Wrestler in sullen silence; but before they had
gone a mile, his black mood had blown into the fiord. River bank and
lanes were sweet with flowers, and every green hedge they passed was
a-flutter with nesting birds. The traders' booths were full of beautiful
things; musicians, acrobats, and jugglers with little trick dogs, were
everywhere,--one had only to stop and look. A dingy trading vessel lay
in the river, loaded with great red apples, some Norman's winter store.
One of the crew who knew Rolf threw some after him, by way of greeting;
and the two munched luxuriously as they walked along. They passed many
Viking camps, gay with streamers and striped linens, where groups of
brawny fair-haired men wrestled and tried each other's skill, or sat at
rough tables under the trees, drinking and singing. In one place they
were practising with bow and arrow; and, being quite impartial in their
choice of a target, one of the archers sent a shaft within an inch of
Rolf's head, purely for the expected pleasure of seeing him start and
dodge. Finding that neither he nor Alwin would go a step faster, they
rained shafts about their ears as long as they were within bow-shot, and
saw them out of range with a cheer.

The road branched into one of the main thoroughfares, and they met
pretty maidens who smiled at them, melancholy minstrels who frowned at
them, and grim-mouthed warriors whose eyes were too intent on future
battles even to see them. Occasionally Rolf quietly saluted some young
guardsman; and, to the thrall's surprise, the warrior answered not only
with friendliness but even with respect. It seemed strange that one of
Rolf's mild aspect should be held in any particular esteem by such young
fire-eaters. Once they encountered a half-tipsy seaman, who made a
snatch at Rolf's apple, and succeeded in knocking it from his hand into
the dust. The Wrestler only fixed his blue eyes upon him in a long look,
but the man went down on his knees as though he had been hit.

"I did not know it was you, Rolf Erlingsson," he hiccoughed over and
over in maudlin terror. "I beg you not to be angry."

"It is seldom that I have seen such a coward as that," Alwin said in
disgust as they walked on.

Rolf turned upon him his gentle smile. "It is your opinion, then, that a
man must he a coward to fear me?"

Alwin did not answer immediately: of a sudden it occurred to him to
doubt the Wrestler's mild manner.

While he was still hesitating, Rolf caught him lightly around the waist
and swung him over a hedge into a field where a dozen red-and-yellow
tented booths were clustered. "These are Thorgrim Svensson's tents," he
explained, following as coolly as though that were the accepted mode of
entrance. "Yonder he is,--that lean little man with the freckled face.
He is a great seafaring man. I promise you that you will see many
precious things from all over the world."

Approaching the booths, Alwin had immediate proof of this statement, for
bench and bush and ground were littered with garments and furs and
weapons, and odds-and-ends of spoil, as if a ship had been overturned on
the spot. The lean little man whom Rolf had pointed out stood in the
midst of it all, examining and directing. He was dressed in coarse
homespun of the dingy colors of trading vessels, gray and brown and
rusty black, which contrasted oddly with the mantle of gorgeous purple
velvet he was at that moment trying on. His little freckled face was
wrinkled into a hundred shrewd puckers, and his eyes were two twinkling
pin-points of sharpness. He seemed to thrust their glance into Alwin, as
he advanced to meet his visitors; and the men who were helping him
paused and looked at the thrall with expectant grins.

Rolf said blandly, "Greeting, Thorgrim Svensson! We have come to see
your horse-fight. This is Alwin, Edmund Jarl's son, of England. Bad luck
has made him Leif's thrall, but his accomplishments have made me his
friend."

He spoke with the utmost mildness, merely glancing at the grinning crew;
yet they sobered as though their mirth had been turned off by a faucet,
and Thorgrim gave the thrall a civil welcome.

"It is a great pity," he continued, addressing the Wrestler, "that you
cannot see the Flesh-Tearer, since you came for that purpose; but it has
happened that he has lamed himself, and will not be able to fight for a
week. Do not go away on that account, however. My ship has brought me
some cloaks even finer than the one you covet,"--here it seemed to Alwin
as if the little man winked at Rolf,--"and if the Englishman is as good
a swordsman as you have said--ahem!" He broke off with a cough, and
endeavored to hide his abruptness by turning away and picking a fur
mantle off a pile of costly things.

Alwin's momentary surprise was forgotten at sight of the treasure thus
disclosed. Beneath the cloak, thrown down like a thing of little value,
lay an open book. It was written in Anglo-Saxon letters of gold and
silver; its crumpled pages were of rarest rose-tinted vellum; its
covers, sheets of polished wood gold-embossed and adorned with golden
clasps. Even Alfred's royal kinswoman had never owned so splendid a
volume. The English boy caught it up with an exclamation of delight, and
turned the pages hungrily, trying whether his mother's lessons would
come back to him.

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?"

"If I fail," Alwin returned promptly, "Rolf Erlingsson will pay for me.
He has told me that while he is free and I am bound, he is answerable
for what I do."

At this there was some laughter--when it was seen that the Wrestler was
not offended. "A quick wit answered that, Alwin of England," Rolf said
with a smile. "I will pay willingly, if you do not save us both, as I
expect."

Anxious to be done with it, Alwin fell upon the thrall with a fierceness
that terrified the fellow. His blade played about him like lightning;
one could scarce follow its motions. A flesh-wound in the hip; and the
poor churl, who had little real skill and less natural spirit, began to
blunder. A thrust in the arm that would have only redoubled Alwin's
zeal, finished him completely. With a roar of pain, he threw his weapon
from him, broke through the circle of angry men, and fled, cowering,
among the booths.

There were few words spoken as the cloak and the book were handed over.
The set of Thorgrim's mouth suggested that if he said anything, it would
be something which he realized might be better left unsaid. His men were
like hounds in leash. Rolf spoke a few smooth phrases, and hurried his
companion away.

The sense that he had been tricked to the level of a performing bear
came upon Alwin afresh. When they stood once more in the road, he looked
at the Wrestler accusingly and searchingly.

Rolf began to talk of the book. "Nothing have I seen which I think so
fine. I must admit that you men of England are more skilful than we of
the North in such matters. It is all well enough to scratch pictures on
a rock or carve them on a door; but what will you do when you wish to
move? Either you must leave them behind, or get a yoke of oxen. To have
them painted on kid-skin, I like much better. You are in great luck to
come into possession of such property."

Alwin forgot his resentful suspicions in his pleasure. "Let us sit down
somewhere and examine it," said he. "Yonder, where those trees stretch
over the fence and make the grass shady,--that will be a good place."

"Have it your own way," Rolf assented. To the shady spot they proceeded
accordingly.

Rolf stretched himself comfortably in the long grass and made a pillow
of his arms. Alwin squatted down, his back planted against the fence,
the book open on his knees.

The reading-matter was attractive enough, with its glittering characters
and rose-tinted pages, and every initial letter inches high and shrined
in azure-blue traceries. But the splendor of the pictures!--no barbaric
heart could resist them. What if the straight lines were crooked,--if
the draperies were wooden,--the hands and the feet ungainly? They had
been drawn with sparkles of gold and gleams of silver, in blue and
scarlet and violet, until nothing less than a stained-glass window
glowing in the sun could even suggest their radiance. Rolf warmed into
unusual heartiness.

"By the hilt of my sword, he was an accomplished man who was able to
make such pictures! Look at that horse,--it does not keep you guessing a
moment to tell what it is. And yonder man with the red flames leaping
about him,--I wish I knew why he was bound to that post!"

Alwin also was bitten with curiosity. "I tell you what I will do," he
offered. "You must not suppose that reading is as easy as swimming, or
handling a sword. My father did not have the accomplishment, and his
hair was gray. Neither would my mother have learned it, had it not been
that Alfred was her kinsman and she was proud of his scholarship. Nor
should I have known how, if she had not taught me. And I have forgotten
much. But this I will offer you: I will read the Saxon words to myself,
and then tell you in the Northern tongue what they mean."

He spread the book open on a spot of clean turf, stretched himself on
his stomach, gripped one leg around the other, planted his chin on his
clenched fists, and began.

It was slow work. He had forgotten a good deal; and every other word was
linked with distracting memories: his mother leaning from her embroidery
frame to follow the line with her bodkin; his mother, erect and stern,
bidding Brother Ambrose bear him away and flog him for his idleness; his
mother hearing his lesson with one arm around him and the other hand
holding the sweetmeat she would give him if he succeeded. He did not
notice that Rolf's eyes were gradually closing, and his bated breath
lengthening into long even sighs. He plodded on and on.

All at once a thunder of approaching hoof-beats reached him from up the
road. Nearer and nearer they came; and around the curve swept a party of
the King's guardsmen,--yellow hair and scarlet cloaks flying in the
wind, spurs jingling, weapons clattering, armor clashing. Alwin glanced
up and saw their leader,--and his interest in pale pictured saints
dropped dead.

"It must be King Olaf himself!" he murmured, staring.

A head taller than the other tall men, with shoulders a palm's-width
broader, the leader sat on his mighty black horse like a second Thor.
Light flashed from his steel tunic and gilded helmet. His bronzed face
had an eagle's beak for a nose, and eyes of the blue of ice or steel,
piercing as a two-edged sword. A white cross was painted on his shield
of gold.

As he swept past, he glanced toward the pair by the fence. Catching
sight of the sleeping Rolf, he checked his horse sharply, made a motion
bidding the others go on without him, and, wheeling, rode back, followed
only by a mounted thrall who was evidently his personal attendant. Alwin
leaped up and attempted to arouse his companion, but the guardsman saved
him the trouble. Leaning out of his saddle, he struck the Wrestler a
smart blow with the flat of his sword.

"What now, Rolf Erlingsson!" he demanded, in tones of thunder. "Because
I go on a five days' journey, must it happen that my men lie like
drunken swine along the roadside? For this you shall feel--"

Before his eyes were fairly open, Rolf was on his feet, tugging at his
sword. Luckily, before he thrust, he got a glimpse of his assailant.

"Leif, the son of Eric!" he cried, dropping his weapon. "Welcome! Hail
to you!"

The warrior's frown relaxed into a grim smile, as he yielded his hand to
his young follower's hearty grip.

"Is it possible that you are sober after all? What in the Fiend's name
do you here, asleep by the road in company with a thrall and a purple
cloak?"

Rolf relaxed into his customary drawl. "That is unjustly spoken, chief.
I have not been asleep. I have found a new and worthy enjoyment. I have
been listening while this Englishman read aloud from a Saxon book of
saints."

"A Saxon book of saints!" exclaimed the guardsman. "I would see it."

When its owner had handed it up, he looked it through hastily, yet
turning the leaves with reverence, and crossing himself whenever he
encountered a pictured cross. As he handed it back, he turned his eyes
on Alwin, blue and piercing as steel.

"It is likely that you are a high-born captive. That you can read is an
unusual accomplishment. It is not impossible that you might be useful to
me. Who is your master? Is it of any use to try to buy you from him?"

Rolf laughed. "Certainly you are well named 'the Lucky,' since you only
wish for what is already yours. This is the cook-boy whom Tyrker bought
to fill the place of Hord."

"So?" said Leif, in unconscious imitation of his old German
foster-father. He sat staring down thoughtfully at the boy,--until his
attendant took jealous alarm, and put his horse through a manoeuvre to
arouse him.

The guardsman came to himself with a start and a hasty gathering up of
his rein. "That is a good thing. We will speak further of it. Now, Olaf
Trygvasson is awaiting my report. Tell them I will be in camp to-morrow.
If I find drunken heads or dulled weapons--!" He looked his threat.

"I will heed your orders in this as in everything," Rolf answered, in
the courtier-phrase of the day. His chief gave him a short nod, struck
spurs to his horse, and galloped after his comrades.




CHAPTER VIII

LEIF THE CROSS-BEARER


    Inquire and impart
    Should every man of sense,
    Who will be accounted sage.
    Let one only know,--
    A second may not;
    If three, all the world knows.
        Ha'vama'l


It was early the next morning, so early that the world was only here and
there awake. The town was silent; the fields were empty; the woods
around the camp slept in darkness and silence. Only the little valley
lay fresh and smiling in the new light, winking back at the sun from a
million dewy eyes.

Under the trees the long white-scoured tables stood ready with bowl and
trencher, and Alwin carried food to and fro with leisurely steps. From
Helga's booth her voice arose in a weird battle-chant; while from the
river bank came the voices and laughter and loud splashing of many
bathers.

Gradually the shouts merged into a persistent roar. The roar swelled
into a thunder of excitement. Alwin paused, in the act of ladling curds
into the line of wooden bowls, and listened smiling.

"Now they are swimming a race back to the bank. I wonder whom they will
drive out of the water today." For that was the established penalty for
being last in the race.

The thunder of cheering reached its height; then suddenly it split into
scattered jeers and hootings. There was a crackling of dead leaves, a
rustling of bushes, and Sigurd appeared, dripping and breathless.
Panting and spent, he threw himself on the ground, his shining white
body making a cameo against the mossy green.

"You! You beaten!" Alwin cried in surprise.

Sigurd gave a breathless laugh. "Even I myself. Certainly it is a time
of wonders!" He looked eagerly at the spread table, and held up his
hand. "And I am starving besides! Toss me something, I beg of you." When
Alwin had thrown him a chunk of crusty bread, he consented to go on and
explain his defeat between mouthfuls. "It was because my shoulder is
still heavy in its movements. I broke it wrestling last winter. I forgot
about it when I entered the race."

"That is a pity," said Alwin. But he spoke absently, for he was thinking
that here might be an opening for something he wished to say. He filled
several bowls in silence, Sigurd watching over his bread with twinkling
eyes. After a while Alwin went on cautiously: "This mishap is a light
one, however. I hope it is not likely that you will have to endure a
heavier disappointment when Leif arrives today."

Back went Sigurd's yellow head in a peal of laughter. "I would have
wagered it!" he shouted. "I would have wagered my horse that you were
aiming at that! So every speech ends, no matter where it begins. I talk
with Helga of what we did as children and she answers: 'You remember
much, foster-brother; do not forget the sternness of Leif's temper.' I
enter into conversation with Rolf, and he returns, 'Yes, it is likely
that Leif has got greater favor than ever with King Olaf. I cannot be
altogether certain that he will shelter one who has broken Olaf's laws.'
Tyrker advises me,--by Saint Michael, you are all as wise as Mimir!" He
flung the crust from him with a gesture of good-humored impatience. "Do
you all think I am a fool, that I do not know what I am doing? It
appears that you forget that Leif Ericsson is my foster-father."

Alwin deposited the last curd in the last bowl, and stood licking the
horn-spoon, and looking doubtfully at the other. "Do you mean by that
that you have a right to give him orders? I have heard that in the North
a foster-son does not treat his foster-father as his superior, but as
his servant. Yet Leif did not look to be--"

Sigurd shouted with laughter. "He did not! I will wager my head he did
not! Certainly the foster-son who would show disrespect to Leif the
Lucky would be putting his life in a bear's paw. It makes no difference
that it is customary for many silly old men of lower birth to allow
themselves to be trampled upon by fiery young men of higher rank, like
old wolves nipped by young ones. King Olaf's heir dare not do so to Leif
Ericsson. No; what I would have you understand is that I know what I am
doing because I know Leif's temper as you know your English runes. From
the time I was five winters old to the time I was fifteen, I lived under
his roof in Greenland, and he was as my father to me. I know his
sternness, but I know also his justice and what he will dare for a
friend, though Olaf and all his host oppose him."

He let fly a Norman oath as, splod! a handful of wet clay struck between
his bare shoulders. Turning, he saw among the bushes a mischievous hand
raised for a second throw, and scrambled laughing to his feet.

"The trolls! First to drive me from my bath and then to throw mud on me!
Poison his bowl, if you love me, Alwin. Ah, what a throw! It is not
likely that you could hit a door. What bondmaids' aiming! Shame!"
Mocking, and dodging this way and that, he gained the welcome shelter of
the sleeping-house.

A rush of big white bodies, a gleam of dampened yellow hair, an outburst
of boisterous merriment, and the camp was swarming with hungry
uproarious giants, who threw shoes at each other and shoved and
quarrelled around the polished shield, before which they parted their
yellow locks, stamping, singing and whistling as they pulled on their
tunics and buckled their belts.

"Leif is coming!--the Lucky, the Loved One!" Helga sang from her booth;
and the din was redoubled with cheering.

"By Thor, it seems to me that he is coming now!" said Valbrand,
suddenly. He had finished his toilet, and sat at the table, facing the
thicket. Every one turned to look, and beheld Leif's thrall-attendant
gallop out of the shadows toward them. No one followed, however, and a
murmur of disappointment went round.

"It is nobody but Kark!"

Kark rose in his stirrups and waved his hand. He was of the commonest
type of colorless blond, and coarse and ignorant of face; but his
manners had the assurance of a privileged character.

"It is more than Kark," he shouted. "It is news that is worth a hearing.
Ho, for Greenland! Greenland in three days!"

"Greenland?" echoed the chorus.

"Greenland?" cried Helga, appearing in her doorway, with blanching
cheeks.

They rushed upon the messenger, and hauled him from his horse and surged
about him. And what had seemed Babel before was but gentle murmuring
compared with what now followed.

"Greenland! What for?"--"You are jesting." "That pagan hole!"--"In three
days? It is impossible!"--"Is the chief witch-ridden?"--" Has word come
that Eric is dead?"--" Has Leif quarrelled with King Olaf, that the King
has banished him?"--" Greenland, grave-mound for living men!"--"What
for?"--"In the Troll's name, why?"--" You are lying; it is certain that
you are."--" Speak, you raven!"

"In a moment, in a moment,--give me breath and room, my masters," the
thrall answered boldly. "It is the truth; I myself heard the talk. But
first,--I have ridden far and fast, and my throat is parched with--"

A dozen milk-bowls were snatched from the table and passed to him. He
emptied two with cool deliberation, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

"I give you thanks. I shall not keep you waiting. It happened last night
when Leif came in to make his report to the King. Olaf was seated on the
throne in his hall, feasting. Many famous chiefs sat along the walls.
You should have heard the cheer they gave when it was known that Leif
had the victory!"

Here Kark's roving eyes discovered Alwin among the listeners; he paused,
and treated him to a long insolent stare. Then he went on:

"I was saying that they cheered. It is likely that the warriors up in
Valhalla heard, and thought it a battle-cry. Olaf raised his
drinking-horn and said, 'Hail to you, Leif Ericsson! Health and
greeting! Victory always follows your sword.' Then he drank to him
across the floor, and bade him come and sit beside him, that he might
have serious speech with him."

A second cheer, loud as a battle-cry, went up to Valhalla. But mingling
with its echo there arose a chorus of resentment.

"Yet after such honors why does he banish him?"--"Did they
quarrel?"--"Is it possible that there is treachery?"--"Tell us why he is
banished!"--"Yes, why?" --"Answer that!"

The messenger laughed loudly. "Who said that he was banished? Rein in
your tongues. As much honor as is possible is intended him. It happened
after the feast--"

"Then pass over the feast; come to your story!" was shouted so
impatiently that even Kark saw the wisdom of complying.

"It shall be as you like. I shall begin with the time when every warrior
had gone to bed, except those lying drunk upon the benches. I sat on
Leif's foot-stool, with his horn. It is likely that I also had been
asleep, for what I first remember was that Leif and the King had ceased
speaking together, and sat leaning back staring at the torches, which
were burning low. It was so still that you could hear the men snore and
the branches scraping on the roof. Then the King said, while he still
looked at the torch, 'Do you purpose sailing to Greenland in the
summer?' It is likely that Leif felt some surprise, for he did not
answer straightway; but he is wont to have fine words ready in his
throat, and at last he said, 'I should wish to do so, if it is your
will.' Then the King said nothing for a long time, and they both sat
looking at the pine torch that was burning low, until it went out. Then
Olaf turned and looked into Leif's eyes and said, 'I think it may well
be so. You shall go my errand, and preach Christianity in Greenland.'"

From Kark's audience burst another volley of exclamations.

"It is because he is always lucky!"--"It cannot be done. Remember
Eric!"--"The Red One will slay him!"--"You forget Thorhild his mother!"
"Hail to the King!" --"It is a great honor!"

"Silence!" Valbrand commanded. Kark went on: "Leif said that he was
willing to do whatever the King wished; yet it would not be easy. He
spoke the name of Eric, and after that they lowered their voices so that
I could not hear. Then at last Olaf leaned back in his high-seat and
Leif stood up to go. Olaf stretched forth his hand and said, 'I know no
man fitter for the work than you. You shall carry good luck with you.'
Leif answered: 'That can only be if I carry yours with me.' Then he
grasped the King's hand and they drank to each other, looking deep into
each other's eyes."

There was a pause, to make sure the messenger had finished. Then there
broke out cheers and acclamations and exulting.

"Hail to Leif! Hail to the Lucky One!"--"Leif and the Cross!"--"Down
with the hammer sign!"--"Down with Thor!"--"Victory for Leif, Leif and
the Cross!"

Shields clashed and swords were waved. Kark was thrown bodily into the
air and tossed from hand to hand. A wave of mad enthusiasm swept over
the group. Only Helga stood like one stunned, her hands wound in her
long tresses, her face set and despairing.

The Black One was the first to notice her amid the confusion. He dropped
the cloak he was waving and stared at her wonderingly for a moment; then
he burst into a boisterous laugh.

"Look at the shield-maiden, comrades,--look at the shield-maiden! It has
come into her mind that she is going back to Thorhild!"

For a moment Alwin wondered who Thorhild might be. Then vaguely he
remembered hearing that it was to escape a strong-minded matron of that
name that Helga had fled from Greenland. That now she must go back to be
civilized, and made like other maidens, struck him also as an excellent
joke; and he joined in the laugh. One after another caught it up with
jests and mocking.

"Back to Thorhild the Iron-Handed!"--"No more short kirtles!"--"She has
speared her last boar!"--"After this she will embroider boar-hunts on
tapestry!"--"Embroider? Is it likely that she knows which end of the
needle to put the thread through?"--"It will be like yoking a wild
steer!"--"Taming a shield-maiden!"--"There will be dagger-holes in
Thorhild's back!"--They crowded around her, bandying the jest back and
forth, and roaring with laughter.

Always before, Helga had taken their chaff in good part; always before,
she had joined them in making merry at her expense. But now she did not
laugh. She rose slowly and stood looking at them, her breast heaving,
her eyes like glowing coals.

At last she said shrilly, "Oh, laugh! If you see a jest in it--laugh!
Because I am going to lose my freedom--my rides over the green
country,--never to stand in the bow and feel the deck bounding under
me,--is it such sport to you, you stupid clods? Would you think it a
jest if the Franks should carry me off, and shut me up in one of their
towers, and load me with fetters, and force me to toil day and night for
them? You would take that ill enough. How much better is it that I am to
be shut in a smothering women's-house and wound around with cloth till I
trip when I walk, and made to waste the daylight, baking to fill your
swinish stomachs, and sewing tapestries that your dull eyes may have
something to look at while you swallow your ale? Clods! I had rather the
Franks took me. At least they would not call themselves my friends while
they ill-used me. Heavy-witted churls, laugh if you want to! Laugh till
you burst!"

She whirled away from them into her booth, and the door-curtain fell
behind her.

All day long she sat there, neither eating nor speaking, Editha
crouching in a corner, afraid to approach her.




CHAPTER IX

BEFORE THE CHIEFTAIN


    At home let a man be cheerful,
    And toward a guest liberal;
    Of wise conduct he should be,
    Of good memory and ready speech.
         Ha'vama'l


In the river, on the city-side, the "Sea-Deer" lay at anchor, stripped
to her hulk, as the custom was. Her oars and her rowing-benches, her
scarlet-and-white sail, her gilded vanes and carven dragon-head, were
all carefully stored in the booths at the camp. With the eagerness of
lovers, her crew rushed down to summon her from her loneliness and once
more hang her finery about her. All day long their brushes lapped her
sides caressingly, and their hammers rang upon her decking. All day long
the ship's boat plied to and fro, bringing her equipments across the
river. All day long Alwin was hurried back and forth with messages, and
tools, and coils of rope.

The last trip he made, Sigurd Haraldsson walked with him across the
bridge and along the city-bank of the river. The young Viking had spent
the day riding around the country with Tyrker, getting prices on a
ship-load of corn. Corn, it seemed, was worth its weight in gold in
Greenland.

"Leif shows a keen wit in taking Eric a present of corn," Sigurd
explained, as they dodged the loaded thralls running up and down the
gangways. "He will like it better than greater valuables. His pleasure
will come near to converting him."

Alwin shook his head doubtfully,--not at this last observation, but at
the prospect in general. "The more I think of going to Greenland," he
said, "the more excellent a place I find Norway."

He looked appreciatively at the river beside them, and ahead at the
great shining fiord. Scattered over its sunlit waters trim clipper-built
craft rode at anchor; between them, long-oared skiffs darted back and
forth like long-legged water-bugs. Along the shore a chain of ships
stretched as far as eye could reach,--graceful war cruisers,
heavily-laden provision ships, substantial trading vessels. On the flat
beach and along the wooded banks rose great storehouses and lines of
fine new ship-sheds. Rich merchandise was piled before them; rows of
covered carts stood in waiting. Everywhere were busy throngs of traders
and seamen and slaves. His eye kindled as it passed from point to point.

"It seems that Northmen are something more than pirates," he said,
thoughtfully.

"It seems that your speech is something more than free," said Sigurd, in
displeasure.

Alwin realized that it had been, and explained: "I but spoke of you as
southerners do who have not seen your country. I tell you truly that,
after England, I believe Norway to be the finest country in the world."

Sigurd swung along with recovered good-humor. "I will not quarrel with
you over that exception. And yonder is Valbrand just come ashore,--at
the fore-gangway. Go and do your errand with him, and then we will walk
over to that pier and see what it is that the crowd is gathered about,
to make them shout so."

The attraction proved to be a chattering brown ape that some sailor had
brought home from the East. Part of the spectators regarded it as a
strange pagan god; part believed it to be an unfortunate being deformed
by witchcraft; and the rest took it for a devil in his own proper
person,--so there was great shrieking and scattering, whichever way it
turned its ugly face. It happened that Sigurd was better informed,
having seen a similar specimen kept as a pet at the court of the Norman
Duke; so the terror of the others amused him and his companion mightily.
They stayed until the creature put an end to the show by breaking away
from its captor and taking refuge in the rigging.

It was a fascinating place altogether,--that beach,--and difficult to
get away from. Almost every ship brought back from its voyage some beast
or bird or fish so outlandish that it was impossible to pass it by.
Twilight had fallen before the pair turned in among the hills.

Between the trees shone the red glow of the camp-fires. Through the dusk
came the pleasant odors of frying fish and roasting pork, with now and
then a whiff of savory garlic. Alwin turned on his companion in sudden
excitement.

"It is likely that Leif is already here!"

Sigurd laughed. "Do you think it advisable for me to climb a tree?"

They stepped out of the shadow into the light of the leaping flames. On
the farther side of the long fire, men were busy with dripping
bear-steaks and half-plucked fowls; while others bent over the steaming
caldron or stirred the big mead-vat. On the near side, ringed around by
stalwart forms, showing black against the fire-glow, the chief sat at
his ease. The flickering light revealed his bronzed eagle face and the
richness of his gold-embroidered cloak. At his elbow Helga the Fair
waited with his drinking-horn. Tyrker hovered behind him, touching now
his hair and now his broad shoulders with an old man's tremulous
fondness. All were listening reverently to his quick, curt narrative.

Sigurd's laughing carelessness fell from him. He walked forward with the
gallant air that sat so well upon his handsome figure. "Health and
greeting, foster-father!" he said in his clear voice. "I have come back
to you, an outlaw seeking shelter."

Helga spilled the ale in her consternation. The old German began a
nervous plucking at his beard. The heads that had swung around toward
Sigurd, turned back expectantly.

More than one heart sank when it was seen that the chief neither held
out his hand nor moved from his seat. Silver-Tongued and sunny-hearted,
the Jarl's son was well-beloved. There was a long pause, in which there
was no sound but the crackling of flames and the loud sputtering of fat.

At last Leif said sternly, "You are my foster-son, and I love your
father more than anyone else, kinsman or not; yet I cannot offer you
hand or welcome until I know wherein you have broken the law."

Through the breathless hush, Sigurd answered with perfect composure:
"That was to be expected of Leif Ericsson. I would not have it
otherwise. All shall be without deceit on my side."

He folded his arms across his breast, and, standing easily before his
judge, told his story. "In the games last fall it happened that I shot
against Hjalmar Oddsson until he was obliged to acknowledge himself
beaten; and for that he wished me ill luck. When the Assembly was held
in my district this spring, he came there and three times tried to make
me angry, so that I should forget that the Assembly Plain is sacred
ground. The first time, he spoke lightly of my skill; but I thought that
a jest, since it had proved too much for him. The second time, he spoke
slightingly of my courage, saying that the reason I did not go in my
father's Viking ship this spring was because I was wont to be afraid in
battle. Now it had been seen by everybody that I wished to go. I had
spent the winter in Normandy, yet I returned by the first ship, that I
might make one of my father's crew. It was not my doing that my ship got
lost in the fog and did not fetch me here until after the Jarl had
sailed. It angered me that such slander should be spoken of me. Yet,
remembering that men are peace-holy on the Assembly Plain, I did manage
to turn it aside. A third time he threw himself in my way, and began
speaking evil of a friend of mine, a man with whom I have sworn
blood-brotherhood. I forgot where we stood, and what was the law, and I
drew my sword and leaped upon him; and it is likely the daylight would
have shone through him, but that he had friends hidden who ran out and
seized me and dragged me before the law-man. Seeing me with drawn sword,
he knew without question that I had broken the law; so, without caring
what I urged, he passed sentence upon me, banishing me from my district
for three seasons. My father and my kinsmen are away on Viking voyages;
I cannot take service with King Olaf, and I will not serve under a
lesser man. It was not easy to know where to go, until I thought of you,
Leif Ericsson. It was you who taught me that 'He who is cold in defence
of a friend, will be cold so long as Hel rules.' There is no fear in my
mind that you will send me away."

He finished as composedly as he had begun, and stood waiting. But not
for long. Leif rose from his seat, sweeping the circle with a keen
glance. "It is likely," he said grimly, "that someone has told you that
an unfavorable answer might be expected, because I feared to lose King
Olaf's favor. You have done well to trust my friendship, foster-son." He
stretched out his hand, a rare gleam of pleasure lighting his deep-set
eyes. "You have behaved well to your friend, Sigurd Haraldsson; there is
the greatest excuse for you in this affair. I bid you welcome, and I
offer you a share in everything I own. If it is your choice, you shall
go back to Brattahlid with me; and my home shall be your home for
whatever time you wish."

Sigurd thanked him with warmth and dignity. Then a twinkle of mischief
shone at the comers of his handsome mouth; after the fashion of the
French court, he bent over the brawny outstretched hand and kissed it.

A murmur of mingled amazement and amusement went up from the group. Leif
himself gave a short laugh as he jerked his hand away.

"This is the first time that ever my fist was mistaken for a maiden's
lips. It is to be hoped that this is not the most useful accomplishment
you have brought from France. Now go and try your fine manners on
Helga,--if you do not fear for your ears. I wish to speak with this
thrall."

But Helga had not now spirit enough to avenge the salute. She drooped
over the fire, staring absently into the embers; the heat toasting her
delicate face rose-red, the light touching her hair into a wonderful
golden web. She looked up at Sigurd with a faint frown; then dropped her
chin back into her hands and forgot him.

Alwin came and placed himself before the chief's seat, where the young
Viking had stood. He was not so picturesque a figure, with his shorn
head and his white slaves'-dress; but he stood straight and supple in
his young strength, his head haughtily erect, his eyes bright and
fearless as a young falcon's.

Leif put his questions. "What are you called?"

"I am called Alwin, Edmund Jarl's son."

"Jarl-born? Then it is likely that you can handle a sword?"

"Not a few of your own men can bear witness to that."

Rolf spoke up with his quiet smile. "The boy speaks the truth. One would
think that he had drunk nothing but dragon's blood since his birth."

"So?" said Leif dryly. "It may be that I should be thankful my men are
not torn to pieces. But these accomplishments count for naught; none
here but have them. You must accomplish something that I think of more
importance, or I shall sell you and buy a man-thrall who has been
trained to work. It seems that you can read runes: can you also write
them?"

In a flash of memory, Alwin saw again Brother Ambrose's cell, and his
rebellious self toiling at the desk; and he marvelled that in this
far-off place and time that toil was to be of use to him.

"To some small degree I can," he answered. "I learned in my boyhood; but
last summer, on tee dairy farm of Gilli of Trondhjem, I practised on
sheep-skins--"

"Gilli of Trondhjem?" Leif repeated. He sat suddenly erect, and shot a
glance at the unconscious Helga; and the old German, peering from the
shadows behind him, did the same.

Alwin regarded them wonderingly. "Yes, Gilli the trader, whom men call
the Wealthy. It was he who first had me in my captivity."

For a long time the chief sat tugging thoughtfully at his yellow
mustache. Tyrker bent over and whispered in his ear; and he nodded
slowly, with another glance at Helga.

"But for this I should never have thought of him,--yet, it is certainly
one way out of the matter."

Suddenly he made a motion with his hand, so that the circle fell back
out of hearing. He turned and fixed his piercing eyes on the thrall as
though he would probe his brain.

"I ask you to tell me what manner of man this Gilli is?"

It happened that Alwin asked nothing better than a chance to free his
mind. He answered instantly: "Gilli of Trondhjem is a low-minded man who
has gained great wealth, and is so greedy for property that he would
give the nails off his hands and the tongue out of his head to get it.
He is an overbearing churl."

Leif's eyes challenged him, but he did not recant.

"So!" said the chief abruptly; then he added: "I am told for certain
that his wife is a well-disposed woman."

"I say nothing against that," Alwin assented. "She is from England,
where women are taught to bear themselves gently."

His eulogy was cut short by an exclamation from the old German.
"Donnerwetter! That is true! An English captive she was. Perhaps she
their runes also understands?"

Finding this a question addressed to him, Alwin answered that he knew
her to understand them, having heard her read from a book of Saxon
prayers.

Tyrker rolled up his eyes devoutly. "Heaven itself it is that so has
ordered it for the shield-maiden! You see, my son? This youth here can
make runes,-she can read them; so can you speak with her without that
the father shall know."

"Bring torches into the sleeping-house," Leif called, rising hastily.
"Valbrand, take your horse and lay saddle on it. You of England, get
bark and an arrow-point, or whatever will serve for rune writing, and
follow me."

What took place behind the log walls, no one knew. When it was over, and
Valbrand had ridden away in the darkness, Rolf sought out the scribe and
gently gave him to understand that he was curious in the matter. But
Alwin only cast a doubtful glance across the fire at Helga, and begged
him to talk of something else.

Late the next afternoon, Valbrand returned, his horse muddy and spent,
and was closeted for a long time with Leif and the old German. But none
heard what passed between them.




CHAPTER X

THE ROYAL BLOOD OF ALFRED

    Brand burns from brand,
    Until it is burnt out;
    Fire is from fire quickened.
    Man to man
    Becomes known by speech,
    But a fool by his bashful silence.
        Ha'vama'l



Brave with fluttering pennant and embroidered linen and sparkling
gilding, amid cheers and prayers and shouts of farewell, on the third
day the "Sea-Deer" set sail for Greenland.

Newly clad from head to foot in a scarlet suit of King Olaf's giving,
Leif stood aft by the great steering oar. The wind blew out his long
hair in a golden banner. The sun splintered its lances upon his gilded
helm. Upon his breast shone the silver crucifix that had been Olaf's
parting gift. His hand was still warm from the clasp of his King's; no
chill at his heart warned him that those hands had met for the last
time, no thought was in him that he had looked his last upon the noble
face he loved. Gazing out over the tumbling blue waves, he thought
exultantly of the time when he should come sailing back, with task
fulfilled, to receive the thanks of his King.

Bravely and merrily the little ship parted from the land and set forth
upon her journey. Every man sat in his place upon the rowing-benches;
every back bent stoutly to the oar. Dripping crystals and flashing in
the sun, the polished blades rose and fell, as the "Sea-Deer" bounded
forward. To those upon her decks, the mass of scarlet cloaks upon the
pier merged into a patch of flame, and then became a fiery dot. The
sunny plain of the city and the green slope of the camp dwindled and
faded; towering cliffs closed about and hid them from the rowers' view.

Leaving the broad elbow of the fiord, they soon entered the narrow arm
that ran in from the sea, like a silver lane between giant walls.
Passing out with the tide, they reached the ocean. The salt wind smote
their faces; the snowy sail drew in a long glad breath and swelled out
with a throb of exultation, and the world of waters closed around their
little craft.

It was a beautiful world, full of the shifting charms of color and of
motion, of the joy of sun and wind; but Alwin found it a wearily busy
world for him. Since he was not needed at the oars, they gave him the
odds and ends of drudgery about the ship. He cleared the decks, and
plied the bailing-scoop, and stood long tedious watches. He helped to
tent over the vessel's decks at night, and to stow away the huge canvas
in the morning. He ground grain for the hungry crew, and kept the great
mead-vat filled that stood before the mast for the shipmates to drink
from. He prepared the food and carried it around and cleared the
remnants away again. He was at the beck and call of forty rough voices;
he was the one shuttlecock among eighty brawny battledores.

It was a peaceful world, stirred by no greater excitement than a glimpse
of a distant sail or the mystery of a half-seen shore; yet things could
happen in it, Alwin found. The second day out, the earl-born captive for
the first time came in direct contact with the thrall-born Kark.

Kark was not deferential, even toward his superiors; there was barely
enough discretion in his roughness to save him from offending. Among
those of his own station, he dispensed even with discretion. And he had
looked upon Alwin with unfriendly eyes ever since Leif's first
manifestation of interest in his English property.

It often happens that the whole of earth's dry land proves too small to
hold two uncongenial spirits peaceably. One can imagine, then, how it
fared when two such opposites were limited to some hundred-odd feet of
timber in mid-ocean.

"Ho there, you cook-boy!" Kark's rough voice came down to the foreroom
where Alwin was working. "Get you quickly forward and wipe up the beer
Valbrand has spilled over his bench."

For a moment, Alwin's eyes opened wide in amazement; then they drew
together into two menacing slits, and his ve