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"How much warmer then is the state of my feelings toward one who is also a friend of Sigurd Haraldsson? Be welcome, Robert Sans-Peur. The best that Brattahlid has to offer shall not be thought too good for you." Whether or not he could speak it, it was evident that the Fearless One understood the Northern tongue. His haughtiness passed from him like a shadow.
Down at the foot of the bluff a boat was thrusting its snout into the soft bank, that an exploring party might land after a three days' journey along the winding highway of the river. In the bow stood the chief, and behind him were Sigurd Haraldsson and Rolf; and behind them, Robert the Norman. With a great racket of joyous hallooing for the benefit of their camp-mates, the crew leaped ashore.
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.
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.
"I am Godwine, son of Wulfnoth the earl." "Then you have right to ask," answered our king. "I am Olaf Haraldsson. I am a viking, and come in peace to see and speak with your father." The boy stared at the king in wonder for a moment. "Are you truly Olaf the Thick, who broke London Bridge?" he asked.
Before the pursuers could speak, the bowerman leaped back upon them with a shriek that cut the air. "Ran is in there! I saw her hair hanging over a barrel. It was long and yellow. It is Ran herself! We shall drown " Sigurd Haraldsson dealt him a cuff that felled him like a log. "The simpleton is not able to tell a piece of yellow fox-fur from a woman's hair," he said, contemptuously.
He was twenty-five years old, as I thought; but therein I was wrong, for he was just my own age, though looking so much older. "I am Olaf Haraldsson Olaf Digri, the Thick, as men call me," he said. "Some call me king, though I rule but over a few ships, as a sea king. Which of you thanes is Eadmund the Atheling?" Then Eadmund rose up from his place, and went towards the king.
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.
He took another step forward, and this time their palms met. The spectators who were watching Sigurd Haraldsson, whispered that the young warrior must be the last man on earth that he expected to see in Greenland, and also the man that he loved the best of all his sworn brothers.
And because he and his hot-headed friend, Sigurd Haraldsson, had the ambition to penetrate the state of my feelings and handle me as you handle your writing-brush there. Is it to be expected that a man would take it well to be fooled by a pair of boys?" The Norman sat for a long time staring at a huge furry skin that hung on the wall in front of him.
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