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"This is her drinking-place," said Ironbeard: "the tracks are many and well-worn; if she hasn't been here this morning, she is sure to come before long." "We are in luck indeed," Wolf-in-the-Temple observed, coolly; "we needn't go far for our bear. He will be coming for us."
"It smells like a menagerie," said the Skull-Splitter, as he handed it to Thore the Hound. "But the bread and the biscuit smell just the same," said Thore the Hound; "in fact, it is the air that smells like a menagerie." "Boys," cried Wolf-in-the-Temple, "do you see that track in the mud?" "Yes; it is the track of a barefooted man," suggested the innocent Skull-Splitter.
They gave each other tremendously bloody surnames, in the style of the Sagas names that reeked with gore and heroism. Hakon himself assumed the pleasing appellation "Skull-splitter," and his classmate Frithjof Ronning was dubbed Vargr-i-Veum, which means Wolf-in-the-Temple.
The boys were quite stunned at the sight of such magnificence, and stood for some minutes gazing at the landscape, before giving heed to the summons of the chief. "Comrades," said Wolf-in-the-Temple, solemnly, "what is life without honor?" There was not a soul present who could answer that conundrum, and after a fitting pause the chief was forced to answer it himself.
"She shall be treated with the respect due to her rank," Wolf-in-the-Temple proceeded, loftily. "I give King Bjorn the Victorious three moons in which to bring me the ransom." "And I'll give you three boxes on the ear, and a cut with my whip, into the bargain, if you don't let the horse alone, and take yer hands off the child." "Vikings!" cried the chief, "lay hands on her!
Martha was stooping at the hearth, blowing and puffing at the fire under her coffee-pot, when the Sons of the Vikings knocked at the door. "What cost thou want, lad?" she asked, gruffly; "thou hast gone astray surely, and I'll show thee the way home." "I am Wolf-in-the-Temple," began Frithjof, thrusting out his chest, and raising his head proudly. "Dear me, you don't say so!" exclaimed Martha.
About nine o'clock they retired into their bunks in the log cabin, but no sooner was Brumle-Knute's rhythmic snoring perceived than Wolf-in-the-Temple put his head out and called to his comrades to meet him in front of the house for a council of war. Instantly they scrambled out of their alcoves, pulled on their coats and trousers; and noiselessly stole out into the night.
Wolf-in-the-Temple was as good as his word, and waked them promptly at four o'clock; and their first task, after having filled their knapsacks with provisions, was to tie Brumle-Knute's hands and feet with the most cunning slip-knots, which would tighten more, the more he struggled to unloose them.
Wolf-in-the-Temple had just helped himself, in old Norse fashion, to a slice of smoked ham, having slashed a piece off at random with his knife, when Erling the Lop-Sided observed that that ham had a very curious odor. Everyone had to test its smell; and they all agreed that it did have a singular flavor, though its taste was irreproachable.
Evidently it had made no toilet as yet, for bits of moss were sticking in its hair; and it yawned once or twice, and shook its head disgustedly. Skull-Splitter knew so well that feeling and could sympathize with the poor young cub. But Wolf-in-the-Temple, who watched it no less intently, was filled with quite different emotions. Here was his heroic deed, for which he had hungered so long.
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