Erling the Bold

R.M. Ballantyne

"Erling the Bold"

Chapter One.

In Which the Tale Begins Somewhat Furiously.

By the early light of a bright summer morning, long, long ago, two small boats were seen to issue from one of the fiords or firths on the west coast of Norway, and row towards the skerries or low rocky islets that lay about a mile distant from the mainland.

Although the morning was young, the sun was already high in the heavens, and brought out in glowing colours the varied characteristics of a mountain scene of unrivalled grandeur.

The two shallops moved swiftly towards the islands, their oars shivering the liquid mirror of the sea, and producing almost the only sound that disturbed the universal stillness, for at that early hour Nature herself seemed buried in deep repose. A silvery mist hung over the water, through which the innumerable rocks and islands assumed fantastic shapes, and the more distant among them appeared as though they floated in air. A few seagulls rose startled from their nests, and sailed upwards with plaintive cries, as the keels of the boats grated on the rocks, and the men stepped out and hauled them up on the beach of one of the islets.

A wild uncouth crew were those Norsemen of old! All were armed, for in their days the power and the means of self-defence were absolutely necessary to self-preservation.

Most of them wore portions of scale armour, or shirts of ring mail, and headpieces of steel, though a few among them appeared to have confidence in the protection afforded by the thick hide of the wolf, which, converted into rude, yet not ungraceful, garments, covered their broad shoulders. All, without exception, carried sword or battle-axe and shield. They were goodly stalwart men every one, but silent and stern.

It might have been observed that the two boats, although bound for the same islet, did not row in company. They were beached as far from each other as the little bay into which they ran would admit of, and the crews stood aloof in two distinct groups.

In the centre of each group stood a man who, from his aspect and bearing, appeared to be superior to his fellows. One was in the prime of life, dark and grave; the other in the first flush of manhood, full grown, though beardless, fair, and ruddy. Both were taller and stouter than their comrades.

The two men had met there to fight, and the cause of their feud was—Love!

Both loved a fair Norse maiden in Horlingdal. The father of the maid favoured the elder warrior; the maid herself preferred the younger.

In those days, barbarous though they undoubtedly were, law and justice were more respected and more frequently appealed to in Norway than in almost any other country. Liberty, crushed elsewhere under the deadweight of feudalism, found a home in the bleak North, and a rough but loving welcome from the piratical, sea-roving! She did not, indeed, dwell altogether scathless among her demi-savage guardians, who, if their perceptions of right and wrong were somewhat confused, might have urged in excuse that their light was small. She received many shocks and frequent insults from individuals, but liberty was sincerely loved and fondly cherished by the body of the Norwegian people, through all the period of those dark ages during which other nations scarce dared to mention her name.

Nevertheless, it was sometimes deemed more convenient to settle disputes by the summary method of an appeal to arms than to await the issue of a tedious and uncertain lawsuit such an appeal being perfectly competent to those who preferred it, and the belief being strong among the fiery spirits of the age that Odin, the god of war, would assuredly give victory to the right.

In the present instance it was not considered any infringement of the law of liberty that the issue of the combat would be the disposal of a fair woman’s hand, with or without her heart. Then, as now, women were often forced to marry against their will.

Having gone to that island to fight—an island being a naturally circumscribed battlefield whose limits could not conveniently be transgressed—the two champions set to work at once with the cool businesslike promptitude of men sprung from a warlike race, and nurtured from their birth in the midst of war’s alarms.

Together, and without speaking, they ascended the rock, which was low and almost barren, with a small extent of turf in the centre, level, and admirably suited to their purpose. Here they faced each other; the one drew his sword, the other raised his battle-axe.

There was no sentiment in that combat. The times and the men were extremely matter-of-fact. The act of slaying gracefully had not yet been acquired; yet there was much of manly grace displayed as each threw himself into the position that nature and experience had taught him was best suited to the wielding of his peculiar weapon.

For one instant each gazed intently into the face of the other, as if to read there his premeditated plan of attack. At that moment the clear blue eye of the younger man dilated, and, as his courage rose, the colour mounted to his cheek. The swart brow of the other darkened as he marked the change; then, with sudden spring and shout, the two fell upon each other and dealt their blows with incredible vigour and rapidity.

They were a well-matched pair. For nearly two hours did they toil and moil over the narrow limits of that sea-girt rock—yet victory leaned to neither side. Now the furious blows rained incessant on the sounding shields; anon the din of strife ceased, while the combatants moved round each other, shifting their position with elastic step, as, with wary motion and eagle glances, each sought to catch the other off his guard, and the clash of steel, as the weapons met in sudden onset, was mingled with the shout of anger or defiance. The sun glanced on whirling blade and axe, and sparkled on their coats of mail as if the lightning flash were playing round them; while screaming seamews flew and circled overhead, as though they regarded with intelligent interest and terror the mortal strife that was going on below.

Blood ere long began to flow freely on both sides; the vigour of the blows began to abate, the steps to falter. The youthful cheek grew pale; the dark warrior’s brow grew darker, while heaving chests, labouring breath, and an occasional gasp, betokened the approaching termination of the struggle. Suddenly the youth, as if under the influence of a new impulse, dropped his shield, sprang forward, raised himself to his full height, grasped his axe with both hands, and, throwing it aloft (thus recklessly exposing his person), brought it down with terrific violence on the shield of his adversary.

The action was so sudden that the other, already much exhausted, was for the moment paralysed, and failed to take advantage of his opportunity. He met but failed to arrest the blow with his shield. It was crushed down upon his head, and in another moment the swarthy warrior lay stretched upon the turf.

Sternly the men conveyed their fallen chief to his boat, and rowed him to the mainland, and many a week passed by ere he recovered from the effects of the blow that felled him. His conqueror returned to have his wounds dressed by the bride for whom he had fought so long and so valiantly on that bright summer morning.

Thus it was that King Haldor of Horlingdal, surnamed the Fierce, conquered King Ulf of Romsdal, acquired his distinctive appellation, and won Herfrida the Soft-eyed for his bride.

It must not be supposed that these warriors were kings in the ordinary acceptation of that term. They belonged to the class of “small” or petty kings, of whom there were great numbers in Norway in those days, and were merely rich and powerful free-landholders or udallers.

Haldor the Fierce had a large family of sons and daughters. They were all fair, strong, and extremely handsome, like himself.

Ulf of Romsdal did not die of his wounds, neither did he die of love. Disappointed love was then, as now, a terrible disease, but not necessarily fatal. Northmen were very sturdy in the olden time. They almost always recovered from that disease sooner or later. When his wounds were healed, Ulf married a fair girl of the Horlingdal district, and went to reside there, but his change of abode did not alter his title. He was always spoken of as Ulf of Romsdal. He and his old enemy Haldor the Fierce speedily became fast friends; and so was it with their wives, Astrid and Herfrida, who also took mightily to each other. They span, and carded wool, and sewed together oftentimes, and discussed the affairs of Horlingdal, no doubt with mutual advantage and satisfaction.

Twenty years passed away, and Haldor’s eldest son, Erling, grew to be a man. He was very like his father—almost a giant in size; fair, very strong, and remarkably handsome. His silken yellow hair fell in heavy curls on a pair of the broadest shoulders in the dale. Although so young, he already had a thick short beard, which was very soft and curly. His limbs were massive, but they were so well proportioned, and his movements so lithe, that his great size and strength were not fully appreciated until one stood close by his side or fell into his powerful grasp.

Erling was lion-like, yet he was by nature gentle and retiring. He had a kindly smile, a hearty laugh, and bright blue eyes. Had he lived in modern days he would undoubtedly have been a man of peace. But he lived “long long ago”—therefore he was a man of war. Being unusually fearless, his companions of the valley called him Erling the Bold. He was, moreover, extremely fond of the sea, and often went on viking cruises in his own ships, whence he was also styled Erling the Sea-king, although he did not at that time possess a foot of land over which to exercise kingly authority.

Now, it must be explained here that the words Sea-king and Viking do not denote the same thing. One is apt to be misled by the termination of the latter word, which has no reference whatever to the royal title king. A viking was merely a piratical rover on the sea, the sea-warrior of the period, but a Sea-king was a leader and commander of vikings. Every Sea-king was a viking, but every viking was not a Sea-king; just as every Admiral is a sailor, but every sailor is not an Admiral. When it is said that Erling was a Sea-king, it is much as if we had said he was an admiral in a small way.

Chapter Two.

Introduces, among others, the Hero and Heroine, and opens up a View of Norse Life in the Olden Time.

Ulf of Romsdal had a daughter named Hilda. She was fair, and extremely pretty.

The young men said that her brow was the habitation of the lily, her eye the mirror of the heavens, her cheek the dwelling-place of the rose. True, in the ardour of their feelings and strength of their imaginations they used strong language; nevertheless it was impossible to overpraise the Norse maiden. Her nut-brown hair fell in luxuriant masses over her shapely shoulders, reaching far below the waist; her skin was fair, and her manners engaging. Hilda was undoubtedly blue-eyed and beautiful. She was just seventeen at this time. Those who loved her (and there were few who did not) styled her the sunbeam.

Erling and Hilda had dwelt near each other from infancy. They had been playmates, and for many years were as brother and sister to each other. Erling’s affection had gradually grown into a stronger passion, but he never mentioned the fact to anyone, being exceedingly shamefaced and shy in regard to love. He would have given his ears to have known that his love was returned, but he dared not to ask. He was very stupid on this point. In regard to other things he was sharp-witted above his fellows. None knew better than he how to guide the “warship” through the intricate mazes of the island-studded coast of Norway; none equalled him in deeds of arms; no one excelled him in speed of foot, in scaling the fells, or in tracking the wolf and bear to their dens; but all beat him in love-making! He was wondrously slow and obtuse at that, and could by no means discover whether or not Hilda regarded him as a lover or a brother. As uncertainty on this point continued, Erling became jealous of all the young men who approached her, and in proportion as this feeling increased his natural disposition changed, and his chafing spirit struggled fiercely within him. But his native good sense and modesty enabled him pretty well to conceal his feelings. As for Hilda, no one knew the state of her mind. It is probable that at this time she herself had not a very distinct idea on the point.

Hilda had a foster-sister named Ada, who was also very beautiful. She was unusually dark for a Norse maiden. Her akin indeed was fair, but her hair and eyes were black like the raven’s wing. Her father was King Hakon of Drontheim.

It was the custom in those warlike days for parents to send out some of their children to be fostered by others—in order, no doubt, to render next to impossible the total extirpation of their families at a time when sudden descents upon households were common. By thus scattering their children the chances of family annihilation were lessened, and the probability that some members might be left alive to take revenge was greatly increased.

Hilda and Ada were warmly attached. Having been brought up together, they loved each other as sisters—all the more, perhaps, that in character they were somewhat opposed. Hilda was grave, thoughtful, almost pensive. Ada was full of vivacity and mirth, fond of fun, and by no means averse to a little of what she styled harmless mischief.

Now there was a man in Horlingdal called Glumm, surnamed the Gruff, who loved Ada fervently. He was a stout, handsome man, of ruddy complexion, and second only to Erling in personal strength and prowess. But by nature he was morose and gloomy. Nothing worse, however, could be said of him. In other respects he was esteemed a brave, excellent man. Glumm was too proud to show his love to Ada very plainly; but she had wit enough to discover it, though no one else did, and she resolved to punish him for his pride by keeping him in suspense.

Horlingdal, where Ulf and Haldor and their families dwelt was, like nearly all the vales on the west of Norway, hemmed in by steep mountains of great height, which were covered with dark pines and birch trees. To the level pastures high up on mountain tops the inhabitants were wont to send their cattle to feed in summer—the small crops of hay in the valleys being carefully gathered and housed for winter use.

Every morning, before the birds began to twitter, Hilda set out, with her pail and her wooden box, to climb the mountain to the upland dairy or “saeter”, and fetch the milk and butter required by the family during the day. Although the maid was of noble birth—Ulf claiming descent from one of those who are said to have come over with Odin and his twelve godars or priests from Asia—this was not deemed an inappropriate occupation. Among the Norsemen labour was the lot of high and low. He was esteemed the best man who could fight most valiantly in battle and labour most actively in the field or with the tools of the smith and carpenter. Ulf of Romsdal, although styled king in virtue of his descent, was not too proud, in the busy summertime, to throw off his coat and toss the hay in his own fields in the midst of his thralls (slaves taken in war) and house-carles. Neither he, nor Haldor, nor any of the small kings, although they were the chief men of the districts in which they resided, thought it beneath their dignity to forge their own spearheads and anchors, or to mend their own doors. As it was with the men, so was it with the women. Hilda the Sunbeam was not despised because she climbed the mountainside to fetch milk and butter for the family.

One morning, in returning from the fell, Hilda heard the loud clatter of the anvil at Haldorstede. Having learned that morning that Danish vikings had been seen prowling among the islands near the fiord, she turned aside to enquire the news.

Haldorstede lay about a mile up the valley, and Hilda passed it every morning on her way to and from the saeter. Ulfstede lay near the shore of the fiord. Turning into the smithy, she found Erling busily engaged in hammering a huge mass of stubborn red-hot metal. So intent was the young man on his occupation that he failed to observe the entrance of his fair visitor, who set down her milk pail, and stood for a few minutes with her hands folded and her eyes fixed demurely on her lover.

Erling had thrown off his jerkin and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt of coarse homespun fabric, in order to give his thick muscular arms unimpeded play in wielding the hammer and turning the mass of glowing metal on the anvil. He wore woollen breeches and hose, both of which had been fashioned by the fingers of his buxom mother, Herfrida. A pair of neatly formed shoes of untanned hide—his own workmanship—protected his feet, and his waist was encircled by a broad leathern girdle, from one side of which depended a short hunting-knife, and from the other a flap, with a slit in it, to support his sword. The latter weapon—a heavy double-edged blade—stood leaning against the forge chimney, along with a huge battle-axe, within reach of his hand. The collar of his shirt was thrown well back, exposing to view a neck and chest whose muscles denoted extraordinary power, and the whiteness of which contrasted strikingly with the ruddy hue of his deeply bronzed countenance.

The young giant appeared to take pleasure in the exercise of his superabundant strength, for, instead of using the ordinary single-hand hammer with which other men were wont to bend the glowing metal to their will, he wielded the great forehammer, and did it as easily, too, with his right arm as if it had been but a wooden mallet. The mass of metal at which he wrought was thick and unyielding, but under his heavy blows it began to assume the form of an axe—a fact which Hilda noticed with a somewhat saddened brow. Erling’s long hair, rolling as it did down his shoulders, frequently straggled over his face and interfered slightly with his vision, whereupon he shook it back with an impatient toss, as a lion might shake his mane, while he toiled with violent energy at his work. To look at him, one might suppose that Vulcan himself had condescended to visit the abodes of men, and work in a terrestrial smithy!

During one of the tosses with which he threw back his hair, Erling chanced to raise his eyes, which instantly fell upon Hilda. A glad smile beamed on his flushed face, and he let the hammer fall with a ringing clatter on the anvil, exclaiming:

“Ha! good morrow to thee, Hilda! Thou comest with stealthy tread, like the midnight marauder. What news? Does all go well at Ulfstede? But why so sad, Hilda? Thy countenance is not wont to quarrel with the mountain air.”

“Truly, no!” replied the girl, smiling, “mountain air likes me well. If my looks are sadder than usual, it is because of the form of the weapon thou art fashioning.”

“The weapon!” exclaimed Erling, as he raised the handle of the hammer, and, resting his arms on it, gazed at his visitor in some surprise. “It is but an axe—a simple axe, perchance a trifle heavier than other axes because it suits my arm better, and I have a weakness that way. What ails thee at a battle-axe, Hilda?”

“I quarrel not with the axe, Erling, but it reminds me of thy love of fighting, and I grieve for that. Why art thou so fond of war?”

“Fond of war!” echoed the youth. “Now, out upon thee, Hilda! what were a man fit for if he could not fight?”

“Nay, I question not thine ability to fight, but I grieve to see thy love for fighting.”

“Truly there seems to me a close relationship between the love of war and the ability to fight,” returned the youth. “But to be plain with thee: I do not love war so much as ye think. Yet I utter this in thine ear, for I would not that the blades of the valley knew it, lest they might presume upon it, and I should have to prove my ability—despite my want of love—upon some of their carcasses.”

“I wish there were no such thing as war,” said Hilda with a sigh.

Erling knitted his brows and gazed into the smithy fire as if he were engaged in pondering some knotty point. “Well, I’m not sure,” said he slowly, and descending to a graver tone of address— “I’m not sure that I can go quite so far as that. If we had no war at all, perchance our swords might rust, and our skill, for want of practice, might fail us in the hour of need. Besides, how could men in that case hope to dwell with Odin in Valhalla’s bright and merry halls? But I agree with thee in wishing that we had less of war and more of peace at home.”

“I fear,” said Hilda, “we seem likely to have more of war and less of peace than usual, if rumours be true. Have you heard that Danish vikings have been seen among the islands?”

“Aye, truly, I have heard of them, and it is that which has sent me to the smithy this morning to hasten forward my battle-axe; for I love not too light a weapon. You see, Hilda, when it has not weight one must sometimes repeat the blow; especially if the mail be strong. But with a heavy axe and a stout arm there is no need for that. I had begun this weapon,” continued the youth, as if he were musing aloud rather than speaking to his companion, “with intent to try its metal on the head of the King; but I fear me it will be necessary to use it in cracking a viking’s headpiece before it cleaves a royal crown.”

“The King!” exclaimed Hilda, with a look of surprise, not unmingled with terror, “Erling, has ambition led thee to this?”

“Not so; but self-preservation urges me to it.”

The maiden paused a few seconds, ere she replied in a meditative voice— “The old man who came among us a year ago, and who calls himself Christian, tells me that his god is not a god of war, like Odin; he says that his god permits no war to men, save that of self-defence; but, Erling, would slaying the King be indeed an act of self-preservation?”

“Aye, in good sooth would it,” replied the youth quickly, while a dark frown crossed his brow.

“How can that be?” asked the maiden.

“Hast such small love for gossip, Hilda, that the foul deeds and ambitious projects of Harald Haarfager have not reached thine ear?”

“I have heard,” replied Hilda, “that he is fond of war, which, truly, is no news, and that he is just now more busy with his bloody game than usual; but what does that matter to thee?”

“Matter!” cried the youth impatiently, as he seized the lump of metal on which he had been at work, and, thrusting it into the smouldering charcoal, commenced to blow the fire energetically, as if to relieve his feelings. “Know ye not that the King—this Harald Fairhair—is not satisfied with the goodly domains that of right belong to him, and the kingly rule which he holds, according to law, over all Norway, but that he means to subdue the whole land to himself, and trample on our necks as he has already trampled on our laws?”

“I know somewhat of this,” said Hilda.

“No one,” pursued Erling vehemently, and blowing the fire into a fervent heat—“no one denies to Harald the right to wear the crown of Norway. That was settled at the Ore Thing (see note 1) in Drontheim long ago; but everyone denies his right to interfere with our established laws and privileges. Has he not, by mere might and force of arms, slain many, and enslaved others, of our best and bravest men? And now he proposes to reduce the whole land to slavery, or something like it, and all because of the foolish speech of a proud girl, who says she will not wed him until he shall first subdue to himself the whole of Norway, and rule over it as fully and freely as King Eric rules over Sweden, or King Gorm over Denmark. He has sworn that he will neither clip nor comb his hair, until he has subdued all the land with scatt (taxes) and duties and domains, or die in the attempt. Trust me! he is like to die in the attempt; and since his Kingship is to be so little occupied with his hair, it would please me well if he would use his time and his shears in clipping the tongue of the wench that set him on so foul an errand. All this thou knowest, Hilda, as well as I; but thou dost not know that men have been at the stede to-day, who tell us that the King is advancing north, and is victorious everywhere. Already King Gandalf and Hako are slain; the two sons of King Eystein have also fallen, and many of the upland kings have been burned, with most of their men, in a house at Ringsager. It is not many days since Harald went up Gudbrandsdal, and north over the Doverfielde, where he ordered all the men to be slain, and everything wide around to be given to the flames. King Gryting of Orkadal and all his people have sworn fidelity to him, and now—worst news of all—it is said he is coming over to pay us a visit in Horlingdal. Is not here cause for fighting in self-defence, or rather for country, and laws and freedom, and wives, and children, and—”

The excited youth stopped abruptly, and, seizing the tongs, whirled the white mass of semi-molten steel upon the anvil, and fell to belabouring it with such goodwill that a bright shower of sparks drove Hilda precipitately out of the workshop.

The wrongs which roused the young Norseman’s indignation to such a pitch are matters of history.

The government of the country at that time involved the democratic element very largely. No act or expedition of any importance could be done or undertaken without the previous deliberation and consent of a “Thing”, or assembly of landed proprietors. There were many different Things—such as General Things, District Things, House Things of the King’s counsellors, and Herd Things of the Court, etcetera, and to such of these there was a distinct and well-known trumpet call. There were also four great Things which were legislative, while the small district Things were only administrative. In addition to which there was the Ore Thing of Drontheim, referred to by Erling. At these Things the King himself possessed no greater power than any of the bonders. He was only a “Thing-man” at a Thing.

No wonder, then, that the self-governing and warlike Norsemen could not bring themselves tamely to submit to the tyranny of Harald Haarfager, or Fairhair, King of Norway by hereditary right, when he cast aside all the restraints of ancient custom, and, in his effort to obtain more power, commenced those bloody wars with his subjects, which had the effect of causing many of his chief men to expatriate themselves and seek new homes in the islands of the great western sea, and which ultimately resulted in the subjugation (at least during that reign) of all the petty kings of Norway. These small kings, be it observed, were not at that time exercising any illegal power, or in the occupation of any unwarrantable position, which could be pleaded by King Harald in justification of his violent proceedings against them. The title of king did not imply independent sovereignty. They were merely the hereditary lords of the soil, who exercised independent and rightful authority over their own estates and households, and modified authority over their respective districts, subject, however, to the laws of the land—laws which were recognised and perfectly understood by the people and the king, and which were admitted by people and king alike to have more authority than the royal will itself. By law the small kings were bound to attend the meetings of the Stor Things or Parliaments, at the summons of the sovereign, and to abide by the decisions of those assemblies, where all men met on an equal footing, but where, of course, intellectual power and eloquence led the multitude, for good or for evil, then just as they do now, and will continue to do as long as, and wherever, free discussion shall obtain. To say that the possession of power, wealth, or influence was frequently abused to the overawing and coercing of those assemblies, is simply to state that they were composed of human beings possessed of fallen natures.

So thoroughly did the Northmen appreciate the importance of having a right to raise their voices and to vote in the national parliaments, and so jealously did they assert and maintain their privileges, that the King himself—before he could, on his accession, assume the crown—was obliged to appear at the “Thing”, where a freeborn landholder proposed him, and where his title to the crown was investigated and proved in due form. No war expedition on a large scale could be undertaken until a Thing had been converged, and requisition legally made by the King for a supply of men and arms; and, generally, whenever any act affecting national or even district interests was contemplated, it was necessary to assemble a Thing, and consult with the people before anything could be done.

It may be easily understood, then, with what an outburst of indignation a free and warlike race beheld the violent course pursued by Harald Fairhair, who roamed through the country with fire and sword, trampling on their cherished laws and privileges, subduing the petty kings, and placing them, when submissive, as Jarls, i.e. earls or governors over the districts to collect the scatt or taxes, and manage affairs in his name and for his behoof.

It is no wonder that Erling the Bold gathered his brow into an ominous frown, pressed his lips together, tossed his locks impatiently while he thought on these things and battered the iron mass on his anvil with the amount of energy that he would have expended in belabouring the head of King Harald himself, had opportunity offered.

Erling’s wrath cooled, however, almost instantly on his observing Hilda’s retreat before the fiery shower. He flung down his hammer, seized his battle-axe, and throwing it on his shoulder as he hurried out, speedily overtook her.

“Forgive my rude manners,” he said. “My soul was chafed by the thoughts that filled my brain, and I scare knew what I did.”

“Truly, thou man of fire,” replied the girl, with an offended look, “I am of half a mind not to pardon thee. See, my kirtle is destroyed by the shower thou didst bestow upon me so freely.”

“I will repay thee that with such a kirtle as might grace a queen the next time I go on viking cruise.”

“Meantime,” said Hilda, “I am to go about like a witch plucked somewhat hastily from the fire by a sympathising crone.”

“Nay; Herfrida will make thee a new kirtle of the best wool at Haldorstede.”

“So thy mother, it seems, is to work and slave in order to undo thy mischief?”

“Then, if nothing else will content thee,” said Erling gaily, “I will make thee one myself; but it must be of leather, for I profess not to know how to stitch more delicate substance. But let me carry thy pitcher, Hilda. I will go to Ulfstede to hold converse with thy father on these matters, for it seemed to me that the clouds are gathering somewhat too thickly over the dale for comfort or peace to remain long with us.”

As the young man and maiden wended their way down the rocky path that skirted the foaming Horlingdal river, Hilda assumed a more serious tone, and sought to convince her companion of the impropriety of being too fond of fighting, in which attempt, as might be supposed, she was not very successful.

“Why, Hilda,” said the youth, at the close of a speech in which his fair companion endeavoured to point out the extreme sinfulness of viking cruises in particular, “it is, as thou sayest, unjust to take from another that which belongs to him if he be our friend; but if he is our enemy, and the enemy of our country, that alters the case. Did not the great Odin himself go on viking cruise and seize what prey he chose?”

Erling said this with the air of a man who deemed his remark unanswerable.

“I know not,” rejoined Hilda. “There seems to me much mystery in our thoughts about the gods. I have heard it said that there is no such god as Odin.”

The maiden uttered this in a subdued voice, and her cheek paled a little as she glanced up at Erling’s countenance. The youth gazed at her with an expression of extreme surprise, and for a few minutes they walked slowly forward without speaking.

There was reason for this silence on both sides. Hilda was naturally of a simple and trustful nature. She had been brought up in the religion of her fathers, and had listened with awe and with deep interest on many a long winter night to the wild legends with which the scalds, or poets of the period, were wont to beguile the evening hours in her father’s mansion; but about a year before the time of which we write, an aged stranger had come from the south, and taken up his abode in the valley, in a secluded and dilapidated hut, in which he was suffered to dwell unmolested by its owner, Haldor the Fierce; whose fierceness, by the way, was never exhibited except in time of war and in the heat of battle!

With this hermit Hilda had held frequent converse, and had listened with horror, but with a species of fascination which she could not resist, to his calm and unanswerable reasoning on the fallacy of the religion of Odin, and on the truth of that of Jesus Christ. At first she resolved to fly from the old man, as a dangerous enemy, who sought to seduce her from the paths of rectitude; but when she looked at his grave, sad face, and listened to the gentle and—she knew not why—persuasive tones of his voice, she changed her mind, and resolved to hear what he had to say. Without being convinced of the truth of the new religion—of which she had heard rumours from the roving vikings who frequented Horlingdal—she was much shaken in regard to the truth of her own, and now, for the first time, she had ventured to hint to a human being what was passing in her mind.

At this period Christianity had not penetrated into Norway, but an occasional wanderer or hermit had found his way thither from time to time to surprise the inhabitants with his new doctrines, and then, perchance, to perish as a warlock because of them. Erling had heard of this old man, and regarded him with no favour, for in his sea rovings he had met with so-called Christians, whose conduct had not prepossessed him in their favour. As for their creed, he knew nothing whatever about it.

His mind, however, was of that bold, straightforward, self-reliant, and meditative cast, which happily has existed in all ages and in all climes, and which, in civilised lands, usually brings a man to honour and power, while in barbarous countries and ages, if not associated with extreme caution and reticence, it is apt to bring its possessor into trouble.

It was with astonishment that Erling heard sentiments which had long been harboured in his own mind drop from the lips of one whose natural character he knew to be the reverse of sceptical in matters of faith, or speculative in matters of opinion. Instead of making a direct reply to Hilda’s remark, he said, after a pause:

“Hilda, I have my doubts of the old man Christian; men say he is a warlock, and I partly believe them, for it is only such who shun the company of their fellows. I would caution thee against him. He believes not in Odin or Thor, which is matter of consideration mainly to himself, but methinks he holdeth fellowship with Nikke, (Satan, or the Evil One) which is matter of consideration for all honest men, aye, and women too, who would live in peace; for if the Evil Spirit exists at all, as I firmly believe he does, in some shape or other, it were well to keep as far from him as we may, and specially to avoid those erring mortals who seem to court his company.”

“The old man is misjudged, believe me,” replied the girl earnestly; “I have spoken much with him and oft. It may be he is wrong in some things—how can a woman judge of such matters?—but he is gentle, and has a kind heart.”

“I like him not,” was Erling’s curt reply.

The youth and maiden had now reached a part of the valley where a small footpath diverged from the main track which led to Ulf’s dwelling. The path ran in the direction of the hayfields that bordered the fiord. Just as they reached it, Hilda observed that her father was labouring there with his thralls.

“See,” she exclaimed, stopping abruptly, and taking her pitcher from Erling, “my father is in the hayfield.”

The youth was about to remonstrate and insist on being allowed to carry the pitcher to the house before going to the field; but on second thoughts he resigned his slight burden, and, saying “farewell”, turned on his heel and descended the path with rapid step and a somewhat burdened heart.

“She loves me not,” he muttered to himself, almost sternly. “I am a brother, nothing more.”

Indulging in these and kindred gloomy reflections, he advanced towards a rocky defile where the path diverged to the right. Before taking the turn he looked back. Hilda was standing on the spot where they had parted, but her face was not directed towards her late companion. She was looking steadily up the valley. Presently the object which attracted her attention appeared in view, and Erling felt a slight sensation of anger, he scarce knew why, on observing the old man who had been the subject of their recent conversation issue from among the rocks. His first impulse was to turn back, but, checking himself, he wheeled sharply round and hurried away.

Scarcely had he taken three steps, however, when he was arrested by a sound that resembled a crash of thunder. Glancing quickly upwards, he beheld an enormous mass of rock, which had become detached from the mountain side, descending in shattered fragments into the valley.

The formation of Horlingdal at that particular point was peculiar. The mountain ranges on either side, which rose to a height of at least four thousand feet, approached each other abruptly, thus forming a dark gloomy defile of a few hundred yards in width, with precipitous cliffs on either side, and the river roaring in the centre of the pass. The water rushed in white-crested billows through its rock-impeded bed, and terminated in a splendid foss, or fall, forty or fifty feet high, which plunged into a seething caldron, whence it issued in a troubled stream to the plain that opened out below. It here found rest in the level fields of Ulfstede, that lay at the head of the fiord. The open amphitheatre above this pass, with its circlet of grand glacier-capped mountains, was the abode of a considerable number of small farmers, in the midst of whose dwellings stood the residence of Haldor, where the meeting in the smithy just described took place.

It was in this narrow defile that the landslip happened, a catastrophe which always has been and still is of frequent occurrence in the mountain regions of Norway.

Hilda and the old man (whom we shall henceforth call Christian) cast their eyes hastily upwards on hearing the sound that had arrested Erling’s steps so suddenly. The enormous mass of rock was detached from the hill on the other side of the river, but the defile was so narrow that falling rocks often rebounded quite across it. The slip occurred just opposite the spot on which Hilda and the old man stood, and as the terrible shower came on, tearing down trees and rocks, the heavier masses being dashed and spurned from the hillside in innumerable fragments, it became evident that to escape beyond the range of the chaotic deluge was impossible.

Hilda understood the danger so well that she was panic stricken and rooted to the spot. Erling understood it also, and, with a sudden cry, dashed at full speed to the rescue. His cry was one almost of despair, for the distance between them was so great that he had no chance, he knew, of reaching her in time.

In this extremity the hermit looked round for a crevice or a rock which might afford protection, but no such place of safety was at hand. The side of the pass rose behind them like a wall to a height of several hundred feet. Seeing this at a glance the old man planted himself firmly in front of Hilda. His lips moved, and the single word “Jesus” dropped from them as he looked with a calm steady gaze at the avalanche.

Scarcely had he taken his stand when the first stones leaped across the gorge, and, striking on the wall of rock behind, burst into fragments and fell in a shower around them. Some of the smaller débris struck the old man’s breast, and the hands which he had raised to protect his face; but he neither blanched nor flinched. In another instant the greater part of the hurling rubbish fell with a terrible crash and tore up the earth in all directions round them. Still they stood unhurt! The height from which the ruin had descended was so great that the masses were scattered, and although they flew around over, and close to them, the great shock passed by and left them unscathed.

But the danger was not yet past. Several of the smaller masses, which had been partially arrested in their progress by bushes, still came thundering down the steep. The quick eye of the hermit observed one of these flying straight towards his head. Its force had been broken by a tree on the opposite hill, but it still retained tremendous impetus. He knew that there was no escape for him. To have moved aside would have exposed Hilda to almost certain destruction. Once again he murmured the Saviour’s name, as he stretched out both hands straight before his face. The rock struck full against them, beat them down on his forehead, and next instant old man and maid were hurled to the ground.

Well was it for Erling that all this occurred so quickly that the danger was past before he reached the spot. Part of the road he had to traverse was strewn so thickly with the rocky ruin that his destruction, had he been a few seconds sooner on the ground, would have been inevitable. He reached Hilda just in time to assist her to rise. She was slightly stunned by the shock, but otherwise unhurt.

Not so the hermit. He lay extended where he had fallen; his grey beard and thin scattered locks dabbled with blood that flowed from a gash in his forehead. Hilda kneeled at his side, and, raising his head, she laid it in her lap.

“Now the gods be praised,” said Erling, as he knelt beside her, and endeavoured to stanch the flow of blood from the wound; “I had thought thy last hour was come, Hilda; but the poor old man, I fear much he will die.”

“Not so; he recovers,” said the girl; “fetch me some water from the spring.”

Erling ran to a rill that trickled down the face of the rock at his side, dipped his leathern bonnet into it, and, quickly returning, sprinkled a little on the old man’s face, and washed the wound.

“It is not deep,” he remarked, after having examined the cut. “His hands are indeed badly bruised, but he will live.”

“Get thee to the stede, Erling, and fetch aid,” said Hilda quickly; “the old man is heavy.”

The youth smiled. “Heavy he is, no doubt, but he wears no armour; methinks I can lift him.”

So saying Erling raised him in his strong arms and bore him away to Ulfstede, where, under the tender care of Hilda and her foster-sister Ada, he speedily revived.

Erling went out meanwhile to assist in the hayfield.

Note 1. The great assembly, or parliament, which was considered the only “Thing” which could confer the sovereignty of the whole of Norway, the other Things having no right or powers beyond their circles. It was convened only for the special purpose of examining and proclaiming the right of the aspirant to the crown, but the King had still to repair to each Law Thing or Small Thing to obtain its acknowledgement of his right and the power of a sovereign within its jurisdiction.

Chapter Three.

Shows how Chief Friends may become Foes, And Cross-Purposes may Produce Cross Consequences, involving Worry and Confusion.

When Christian had been properly cared for, Hilda sent Ada to the hayfield, saying that she would follow her in a short time. Now it so happened, by one of those curious coincidences which are generally considered unaccountable, that as Ada ascended the track which led to the high field above the foss, Glumm the Gruff descended towards the same point from an opposite direction, so that a meeting between the two, in the secluded dell, where the tracks joined, became inevitable.

Whether or not this meeting was anticipated we cannot tell. If it was, the young man and maiden were inimitable actors by nature, for they appeared to be wholly unconscious of aught save the peculiar formation of the respective footpaths along which they slowly moved. There was, indeed, a twinkle in Ada’s eyes; but then Ada’s eyes were noted twinklers; besides, a refractory eyelash might account for such an expression.

As for Glumm, he frowned on the path most unamiably while he sauntered along with both hands thrust into the breast of his tunic, and the point of his sword rasping harshly against rocks and bushes. Glumm was peculiar in his weapons. He wore a double-handed and double-edged sword, which was so long that he was obliged to sling it across his back in order to keep it off the ground. The handle projected above his left shoulder, and the blade, lying diagonally across his person, extended beyond his right calf. The young man was remarkably expert in the use of this immense weapon, and was not only a terror to his foes, but, owing to the enormous sweep of its long blade, an object of some anxiety to his friends when they chanced to be fighting alongside of him. He wore a knife or dagger at his girdle on the right side, which was also of unusual size; in all probability it would have been deemed a pretty good sword by the Romans. There were only two men in the dale who could wield Glumm’s weapons. These were Erling and his father, Haldor. The latter was as strong a man as Glumm, Erling was even stronger; though, being an amiable man he could not be easily persuaded to prove his strength upon his friends. Glumm wore his hair very short. It was curly, and lay close to his head.

As he sauntered along he kicked the stones out of his way savagely, and appeared to find relief to his feelings in so doing, as well as by allowing his sword to rasp across the rocks and shrubs at his side. It might have been observed, however, that Glumm only kicked the little stones out of his way; he never kicked the big ones. It is interesting to observe how trifling a matter will bring out a trait of human nature! Men will sometimes relieve their angry feelings by storming violently at those of their fellows who cannot hurt them, but, strangely enough, they manage to obtain relief to these same feelings without storming, when they chance to be in the company of stronger men than themselves, thereby proving that they have powers of self-restraint which prudence—not to say fear—can call into exercise! commend this moral reflection particularly to the study of boys.

After Glumm had kicked all the little stones out of his way, carefully letting the big ones alone, he came suddenly face to face with Ada, who saluted him with a look of startled surprise, a slight blush, and a burst of hearty laughter.

“Why, Glumm,” exclaimed the maiden, with an arch smile, “thou must have risen off thy wrong side this morning. Methinks, now, were I a man, I should have to look to my weapons, for that long blade of thine seems inclined to fight with the rocks and shrubs of its own accord.”

Poor Glumm blushed as red as if he had been a young girl, at being thus unexpectedly caught giving vent to his ill-humour; he stammered something about bad dreams and evil spirits, and then, breaking into a good-humoured smile, said:

“Well, Ada, I know not what it is that ails me, but I do feel somewhat cross-grained. Perchance a walk with thee may cure me, I see thou art bound for the hayfield. But hast thou not heard the news? The Danish vikings are off the coast, burning and murdering wherever they go. It is rumoured, too, that their fleet is under that king of scoundrels, Skarpedin the Red. Surely there is reason for my being angry.”

“Nay, then, if thou wert a bold man thou wouldst find reason in this for being glad,” replied Ada. “Is not the chance of a fight the joy of a true Norseman’s heart? Surely a spell must have been laid on thee, if thy brow darkens and thy heart grows heavy on hearing of a stout enemy. It is not thus with Erling the Bold. His brow clears and his eye sparkles when a foe worthy of— But what seest thou, Glumm? Has the Dane appeared in the forest that thy brow becomes so suddenly clouded? I pray thee do not run away and leave me unprotected.”

“Doubtless if I did, Erling the Bold would come to thine aid,” replied the young man with some asperity.

“Nay, do not be angry with me, Glumm,” said the girl, laughing, as they reached the field where Haldor and his stout son were busily at work assisting Ulf, who, with all his thralls and freemen, was engaged in cutting and gathering in his hay.

“Hey! here come cloud and sunshine hand in hand,” cried Erling, pausing in his work, as Glumm and his pretty companion approached the scene of labour.

“Get on with thy work, then, and make the hay while I am shining,” retorted Ada, bestowing on the youth a bright smile, which he returned cheerfully and with interest.

This was the wicked Ada’s finishing touch. Glumm saw the exchange of smiles, and a pang of fierce jealousy shot through his breast.

“The cloud sometimes darts out lightning,” he muttered angrily, and, turning on his heel, began to toss the hay with all his might in order to relieve his feelings.

Just then Hilda entered the field, and Glumm, putting strong constraint on himself, accosted her with extreme cheerfulness and respect—resolved in his heart to show Ada that there were other girls in Horlingdal worth courting besides herself. In this game he was by no means successful as regarded Ada, who at once discerned his intention, but the shaft which flew harmlessly past her fixed itself deep in the breast of another victim. Glumm’s unusual urbanity took the kind-hearted Hilda so much by surprise, that she was interested, and encouraged him, in what she conceived to be a tendency towards improvement of disposition, by bestowing on him her sweetest smiles during the course of the day, insomuch that Erling the Bold became much surprised, and at last unaccountably cross.

Thus did these two men, who had for many years been fast and loving friends, become desperately jealous, though each sought to conceal the fact from the other. But the green-eyed monster having obtained a lodgment in their bosoms, could not be easily cast out. Yet the good sense of each enabled him to struggle with some success against the passion, for Glumm, although gruff, was by no means a bad man.

The presence of those conflicting feelings did not, however, interrupt or retard the work of the field. It was a truly busy scene. Masters, unfreemen, and thralls, mistresses and maidens, were there, cutting and turning and piling up the precious crop with might and main; for they knew that the weather could not be trusted to, and the very lives of their cattle depended on the successful ingathering of the hay.

As we have here mentioned the three different classes that existed in Norway, it may be well to explain that the masters were peasants or “bonders”, but not by any means similar to peasants in other lands; on the contrary, they were the udal-born proprietors of the soil—the peasant-nobility, so to speak, the Udallers, or freeholders, without any superior lord, and were entitled to attend and have a voice in the “Things” or assemblies where the laws were enacted and public affairs regulated. The next class was that of the “unfreemen”. These were freed slaves who had wrought out or purchased their freedom, but who, although personally free, and at liberty to go where and serve whom they pleased, were not free to attend the legislative assemblies. They were unfree of the Things, and hence their apparently contradictory designation. They, however, enjoyed the protection and civil rights imparted by the laws, and to their class belonged all the cottars on the land paying a rent in work on the farm of the bonder or udaller, also the house-carles or freeborn indoormen, and the tradesmen, labourers, fishermen, etcetera, about villages and farms. Thralls were slaves taken in war, over whom the owners had absolute control. They might sell them, kill them, or do with them as they pleased. Thralls were permitted to purchase their freedom—and all the descendants of those freed thralls, or unfreemen, were free.

The clothing of the unfreemen was finer than that of the thralls. The legs and arms of nearly all were bare from the knees and elbows downward, though a few had swathed their limbs in bands of rough woollen cloth, while others used straw for this purpose. Nearly all the men wore shoes of untanned leather, and caps of the same material, or of rough homespun cloth, resembling in form the cap of modern fishermen. The udallers, such as Haldor, Ulf, and their children, were clad in finer garments, which were looped and buttoned with brooches and pendants of gold and silver, the booty gathered on those viking cruises, against which Hilda inveighed so earnestly.

The work went on vigorously until the sun began to sink behind the mountain range that lay to the north-westward of the dale. By this time the hay was all cut, and that portion which was sufficiently dry piled up, so Ulf and Haldor left the work to be finished by the younger hands, and stood together in the centre of the field chatting and looking on.

Little change had taken place in the personal appearance of Ulf of Romsdal since the occasion of that memorable duel related in the first chapter of our story. Some of his elasticity, but none of his strength, was gone. There was perhaps a little more thought in his face, and a few more wrinkles on his swarthy brow, but his hair was still black and his figure straight as the blade of his good sword. His old enemy but now fast friend, Haldor the Fierce, had changed still less. True, his formerly smooth chin and cheeks were now thickly covered with luxuriant fair hair, but his broad forehead was still unwrinkled, and his clear blue eye was as bright as when, twenty years before, it gleamed in youthful fire at Ulf. Many a battle had Haldor fought since then, at home and abroad, and several scars on his countenance and shoulders gave evidence that he had not come out of these altogether scathless; but war had not soured him. His smile was as free, open, and honest, and his laugh as loud and hearty, as in days of yore. Erling was the counterpart of his father, only a trifle taller and stouter. At a short distance they might have been taken for twin brothers, and those who did not know them could scarcely have believed that they were father and son.

Close to the spot where the two friends stood, a sturdy thrall was engaged in piling up hay with an uncommon degree of energy. This man had been taken prisoner on the coast of Ireland by Ulf, during one of his sea-roving expeditions. He had a huge massive frame, with a profusion of red hair on his head and face, and a peculiarly humorous twinkle in his eye. His name was Kettle Flatnose. We have reason to believe that the first part of this name had no connection with that domestic utensil which is intimately associated with tea! It was a mere accidental resemblance of sound no doubt. As to the latter part, that is easily explained. In those days there were no surnames. In order to distinguish men of the same name from each other, it was usual to designate them by their complexions, or by some peculiarity of person or trait of character. A blow from a club in early life had destroyed the shape of Kettle’s nose, and had disfigured an otherwise handsome and manly countenance. Hence his name. He was about thirty-five years of age, large-boned, broad-shouldered, and tall, but lean in flesh, and rather ungainly in his motions. Few men cared to grapple with the huge Irish slave, for he possessed a superabundant share of that fire and love of fight which are said to characterise his countrymen even at the present time. He was also gifted with a large share of their characteristic good humour and joviality; which qualities endeared him to many of his companions, especially to the boys of the neighbourhood. In short, there was not a better fellow in the dale than Kettle Flatnose.

“Thy labour is not light, Kettle,” observed Ulf to the thrall as he paused for a few moments in the midst of his work to wipe his heated brow.

“Ill would it become me, master,” replied the man, “to take my work easy when my freedom is so nearly gained.”

“Right, quite right,” replied Ulf with an approving nod, as the thrall set to work again with redoubled energy.

“That man,” he added, turning to Haldor, “will work himself free in a few weeks hence. He is one of my best thralls. I give my slaves, as thou knowest, leave to work after hours to purchase their freedom, and Kettle labours so hard that he is almost a free man already, though he has been with me little more than two years and a half. I fear the fellow will not remain with me after he is free, for he is an unsettled spirit. He was a chief in his own land, it seems, and left a bride behind him, I am told. If he goes, I lose a man equal to two, he is so strong and willing.—Ho! Kettle,” continued Ulf, turning to the man, who had just finished the job on which he had been engaged, “toss me yonder stone and let my friend Haldor see what thou art made of.”

Kettle obeyed with alacrity. He seized a round stone as large as his own head, and, with an unwieldy action of his great frame, cast it violently through the air about a dozen yards in advance of him.

“Well cast, well cast!” cried Haldor, while a murmur of applause rose from the throng of labourers who had been instantly attracted to the spot. “Come, I will try my own hand against thee.”

Haldor advanced, and, lifting the stone, balanced it for a few moments in his right hand, then, with a graceful motion and an apparently slight effort, hurled it forward. It fell a foot beyond Kettle’s mark.

Seeing this the thrall leaped forward, seized the stone, ran back to the line, bent his body almost to the ground, and, exerting himself to the utmost, threw it into the same hollow from which he had lifted it.

“Equal!” cried Ulf. “Come, Haldor, try again.”

“Nay, I will not try until he beats me,” replied Haldor with a good-natured laugh. “But do thou take a cast, Ulf. Thine arm is powerful, as I can tell from experience.”

“Not so,” replied Ulf. “It becomes men who are past their prime to reserve their strength for the sword and battle-axe. Try it once more, Kettle. Mayhap thou wilt pass the mark next time.”

Kettle tried again and again, but without gaining a hair’s-breadth on Haldor’s throw. The stalwart thrall had indeed put forth greater force in his efforts than Haldor, but he did not possess his skill.

“Will no young man make trial of his strength and skill?” said Haldor, looking round upon the eager faces of the crowd.

“Glumm is no doubt anxious to try his hand,” said Erling, who stood close to the line, with his arms resting on the head of his long-hafted battle-axe. “The shining of the Sunbeam will doubtless warm thy heart and nerve thine arm.”

Erling muttered the latter part of his speech in a somewhat bitter tone, alluding to Hilda’s smiles; but the jealous and sulky Glumm could appreciate no sunbeams save those that flashed from Ada’s dark eyes. He understood the remark as a triumphant and ironical taunt, and, leaping fiercely into the ring formed by the spectators, exclaimed:

“I will cast the stone, but I must have a better man than thou, Kettle, to strive with. If Erling the Bold will throw—”

“I will not balk thee,” interrupted the other quickly, as he laid down his axe and stepped up to the line.

Glumm now made a cast. Everyone knew well enough that he was one of the best throwers of the stone in all the dale, and confidently anticipated an easy victory over the thrall. But the unusual tumult of conflicting feelings in the young man’s breast rendered him at the time incapable of exerting his powers to the utmost in a feat, to excel in which requires the union of skill with strength. At his first throw the stone fell short about an inch!

At this Ada’s face became grave, and her heart began to flutter with anxiety; for although willing enough to torment her lover a little herself, she could not brook the idea of his failing in a feat of strength before his comrades.

Furious with disappointment and jealousy, and attributing Ada’s expression to anxiety lest he should succeed, Glumm cast again with passionate energy, and sent the stone just an inch beyond the thrall’s mark. There was a dispute on the point, however, which did not tend to soothe the youth’s feelings, but it was ultimately decided in his favour.

Erling now stood forth; and as he raised his tall form to its full height, and elevated the stone above his head, he seemed (especially to Hilda) the beau-idéal of manly strength and beauty.

He was grieved, however, at Glumm’s failure, for he knew him to be capable of doing better than he had done. He remembered their old friendship too, and pity for his friend’s loss of credit caused the recently implanted jealousy for a moment to abate. He resolved, therefore, to exert himself just sufficiently to maintain his credit.

But, unhappily for the successful issue of this effort of self-denial, Erling happened to cast his eye towards the spot where Hilda stood. The tender-hearted maiden chanced at that moment to be regarding Glumm with a look of genuine pity. Of course Erling misconstrued the look! Next moment the huge stone went singing through the air, and fell with a crash full two yards beyond Glumm’s mark. Happening to alight on a piece of rock, it sprang onward, passed over the edge of the hill or brae on the summit of which the field lay, and gathering additional impetus in its descent, went bounding down the slope, tearing through everything in its way, until it found rest at last on the sea beach below.

A perfect storm of laughter and applause greeted this unexpected feat, but high above the din rose the voice of Glumm, who, now in a towering passion, seized his double-handed sword, and shouting—

“Guard thee, Erling!” made a furious blow at his conqueror’s head.

Erling had fortunately picked up his axe after throwing the stone. He immediately whirled the heavy head so violently against the descending sword that the blade broke off close to the hilt, and Glumm stood before him, disarmed and helpless, gazing in speechless astonishment at the hilt which remained in his hands.

“My good sword!” he exclaimed, in a tone of deep despondency.

At this Erling burst into a hearty fit of laughter. “My bad sword, thou must mean,” said he. “How often have I told thee, Glumm, that there was a flaw in the metal! I have advised thee more than once to prove the blade, and now that thou hast consented to do so, behold the result! But be not so cast down, man; I have forged another blade specially for thyself, friend Glumm, but did not think to give it thee so soon.”

Glumm stood abashed, and had not a word to reply. Fortunately his feelings were relieved by the attention of the whole party being attracted at that moment to the figure of a man on the opposite side of the valley, who ran towards them at full speed, leaping over almost every obstacle that presented itself in his course. In a few minutes he rushed, panting, into the midst of the throng, and presented a baton or short piece of wood to Ulf, at the same time exclaiming: “Haste! King Harald holds a Thing at the Springs. Speed on the token.”

The import of this message and signal were well understood by the men of Horlingdal. When an assembly or Thing was to be convened for discussing civil matters a wooden truncheon was sent round from place to place by fleet messengers, each of whom ran a certain distance, and then delivered over his “message-token” to another runner, who carried it forward to a third, and so on. In this manner the whole country could be roused and its chief men assembled in a comparatively short time. When, however, the Thing was to be assembled for the discussion of affairs pertaining to war, an arrow split in four parts was the message-token. When the split arrow passed through the land men were expected to assemble armed to the teeth, but when the baton went round it was intended that they should meet without the full panoply of war.

As soon as the token was presented, Ulf looked about for a fleet man to carry forward the message. Several of the youths at once stepped forward offering their services. Foremost among them was a stout, deep-chested active boy of about twelve years of age, with long flaxen curls, a round sunburnt face, a bold yet not forward look, a merry smile, and a pair of laughing blue eyes. This was Erling’s little brother Alric—a lad whose bosom was kept in a perpetual state of stormy agitation by the conflict carried on therein between a powerful tendency to fun and mischief, and a strong sense of the obedience due to parents.

“I will go,” said the boy eagerly, holding out his hand for the token.

“Thou, my son?” said Haldor, regarding him with a look of ill-suppressed pride. “Go to thy mother’s bower, boy. What if a fox, or mayhap even a wolf, met thee on the fell?”

“Have I not my good bow of elm?” replied Alric, touching the weapon, which, with a quiver full of arrows, was slung across his back.

“Tush! boy; go pop at the squirrels till thou be grown big enough to warrant thy boasting.”

“Father,” said Alric with a look of glee, “I’m sure I did not boast. I did but point to my poor weapons. Besides, I have good legs. If I cannot fight, methinks I can run.”

“Out upon thee—”

“Nay, Haldor,” said Ulf, interrupting the discussion, “thou art too hard on the lad. Can he run well?”

“I’ll answer for that,” said Erling, laying his large hand on his brother’s flaxen head. “I doubt if there is a fleeter foot in all the dale.”

“Away then,” cried Ulf, handing the token to Alric, “and see that ye deserve all this praise. And now, sirs, let us fare to the hall to sup and prepare for our journey to the Springs.”

The crowd at once broke up and hurried away to Ulfstede in separate groups, discussing eagerly as they went, and stepping out like men who had some pressing business on hand. Alric had already darted away like a hunted deer.

Erling turned hastily aside and went away alone. As soon as he reached a spot where the rugged nature of the ground concealed him from his late companions, he started up the valley at his utmost speed, directing his course so as to enable him to overshoot and intercept his brother. He passed a gorge ahead of the boy; and then, turning suddenly to the left, bore down upon him. So well did he calculate the distance, that on turning round the edge of a jutting cliff he met him face to face, and the two ran somewhat violently into each other’s arms.

On being relieved from this involuntary embrace, Alric stepped back and opened his eyes wide with surprise, while Erling roared with laughter.

“Ye are merry, my brother,” said Alric, relaxing into a grin, “but I have seen thee often thus, and may not stop to observe thee now, seeing that it is nothing new.”

“Give me an arrow, thou rogue! There,” said Erling, splitting the shaft into four parts, handing it back to the boy, and taking the baton from him. “Get thee gone, and use thy legs well. We must not do the King the dishonour to appear before him without our weapons in these unsettled times. Let the token be sent out north, south, east, and west; and, harkee, lad, say nothing to anyone about the object of the assembly.”

Alric’s countenance became grave, then it again relaxed into a broad grin. Giving his brother an emphatic wink with one of his large blue eyes, he darted past him, and was soon far up the glen, running with the speed of a deer and waving the war-token over his head.

Chapter Four.

Describes Warlike Preparations, and a Norse Hall in the Olden Time—Tells also of a Surprise.

Instead of returning to Ulfstede, Erling directed his steps homeward at a brisk pace, and in a short space of time reached the door of his forge. Here he met one of his father’s thralls.

“Ho! fellow,” said he, “is thy mistress at home?”

“Yes, master, she is in the hall getting supper ready against your father’s return.”

“Go tell her there will be no men to eat supper in the hall to-night,” said Erling, unfastening the door of the forge. “Say that I am in the forge, and will presently be in to speak with her. Go also to Thorer, and tell him to get the house-carles busked for war. When they are ready let him come hither to me; and, harkee, use thine utmost speed; there may be bloody work for us all to do this night before the birds are on the wing. Away!”

The man turned and ran to the house, while Erling blew up the smouldering fire of the forge. Throwing off his jerkin, he rolled up his sleeves, and seizing the axe on which he had been engaged when Hilda interrupted him, he wrought so vigorously at the stubborn metal with the great forehammer that in the course of half an hour it was ready to fit on the haft. There was a bundle of hafts in a corner of the workshop. One of these, a tough thick one without knot or flaw, and about five feet long, he fitted to the iron head with great neatness and skill. The polishing of this formidable weapon he deferred to a period of greater leisure. Having completed this piece of work, Erling next turned to another corner of the forge and took up the huge two-handed sword which he had made for his friend Glumm.

The weapon was beautifully executed, and being highly polished, the blade glittered with a flashing light in the ruddy glare of the forge fire. The young giant sat down on his anvil and put a few finishing touches to the sword, regarding it the while with a grim smile, as if he speculated on the probability of his having formed a weapon wherewith his own skull was destined to be cloven asunder. While he was thus engaged his mother Herfrida entered.

The soft-eyed dame could scarcely be called a matronly personage. Having married when about sixteen, she was now just thirty-eight years of age; and though the bloom of maidenhood was gone, the beauty of a well-favoured and healthy woman still remained. She wore a cloak of rich blue wool, and under it a scarlet kirtle with a silver girdle.

“How now, my son,” she said; “why these warlike preparations?”

“Because there is rumour of war; I’m sure that is neither strange nor new to you, mother.”

“Truly no; and well do I know that where war is, there my husband and my son will be found.”

Herfrida said this with a feeling of pride, for, like most of the women of that time and country, she esteemed most highly the men who were boldest and could use their weapons best.

“’Twere well if we were less noted in that way, and more given to peace,” said Erling half-jestingly. “For my own part, I have no liking for war, but you women will be for ever egging us on!”

Herfrida laughed. She was well aware of what she was pleased to term her son’s weakness, namely, an idea that he loved peace, while he was constantly proving to the world that he was just cut out for war. Had he ever shown a spark of cowardice she would have regarded those speeches of his with much anxiety, but as it was she only laughed at them.

“Erling, my boy,” she said suddenly, as her eye fell on the axe at his side,—“what terrible weapon is this? Surely thou must have purchased Thor’s hammer. Can ye wield such a thing?”

“I hope so, mother,” said Erling curtly; “if not, I shall soon be in Valhalla’s halls.”

“What are these rumours of war that are abroad just now?” asked Herfrida.

Erling replied by giving his mother an account of King Harald’s recent deeds, and told her of the calling of the Thing, and of the appearance of the Danish vikings off the coast.

“May good spirits attend thee, my son!” she said, kissing the youth’s forehead fervently, as a natural gush of tenderness and womanly anxiety filled her breast for a moment. But the feeling passed away as quickly as it came; for women who are born and nurtured in warlike times become accustomed and comparatively indifferent to danger, whether it threatens themselves or those most dear to them.

While mother and son were conversing, Thorer entered the smithy, bearing Erling’s armour.

“Are the lads all a-boun?” (armed and ready) enquired Erling as he rose.

“Aye, master; and I have brought your war-gear.”

The man who thus spoke was Haldor’s chief house-carle. He was a very short and extremely powerful man of about forty-five years of age, and so sturdy and muscular as to have acquired the title of Thorer the Thick. He wore a shirt of scale armour, rather rusty, and somewhat the worse of having figured in many a tough battle by land and sea. A triangular shield hung at his back, and his headpiece was a simple peaked helmet of iron, with a prolongation in front that guarded his nose. Thorer’s offensive armour consisted of a short straight sword, a javelin and a bow, with a quiver of arrows.

“How many men hast thou assembled, Thorer?” asked Erling as he donned his armour.

“Seventy-five, master; the rest are up on the fells, on what errand I know not.”

“Seventy-five will do. Haste thee, carle, and lead them to my longship the Swan. Methinks we will skate upon the ocean to-night. (Longships, or war-vessels, were sometimes called ocean-skates.) I will follow thee. Let every man be at his post, and quit not the shore till I come on board. Now fare away as swiftly as may be, and see that everything be done stealthily; above all, keep well out of sight of Ulfstede.”

Thus admonished, Thorer quickly left the forge; and a few seconds later the clanking tread of armed men was heard as Erling’s followers took their way to the fiord.

“Now I will to the hall, my son, and pray that thou mayst fare well,” said Herfrida, once more kissing the forehead which the youth lowered to receive the parting salute. The mother retired, and left her son standing in the forge gazing pensively at the fire, the dying flames of which shot up fitfully now and then, and gleamed on his shining mail.

If Erling the Bold was a splendid specimen of a man in his ordinary costume, when clad in the full panoply of war he was truly magnificent. The rude but not ungraceful armour of the period was admirably fitted to display to advantage the elegant proportions of his gigantic figure. A shirt or tunic of leather, covered with steel rings, hung loosely—yet, owing to its weight, closely—on his shoulders. This was gathered in at the waist by a broad leathern belt, studded with silver ornaments, from which hung a short dagger. A cross belt of somewhat similar make hung from his right shoulder, and supported a two-edged sword of immense weight, which was quite as strong, though not nearly so long, as that which he had forged for Glumm. It was intended for a single-handed weapon, though men of smaller size might have been constrained, in attempting to wield it, to make use of both hands. The youth’s lower limbs were clothed in closely-fitting leather leggings, and a pair of untanned leather shoes, laced with a single thong, protected his feet. On his head he wore a small skull-cap, or helmet, of burnished steel, from the top of which rose a pair of hawk’s wings expanded, as if in the act of flight. No gloves or gauntlets covered his hands, but on his left arm hung a large shield, shaped somewhat like an elongated heart, with a sharp point at its lower end. Its top touched his shoulder, and the lower part reached to his knee.

This shield was made of several plies of thick bull-hide, with an outer coat of iron—the whole being riveted firmly together with iron studs. It was painted pure white, without device of any kind, but there was a band of azure blue round it, near the margin—the rim itself being of polished steel. In addition to his enormous axe, sword, and dagger, Erling carried at his back a short bow and a quiver full of arrows.

The whole of this war gear bore evidence of being cherished with the utmost care and solicitude. Every ring on the tunic was polished as highly as the metal would admit of, so that the light appeared to trickle over it as its wearer moved. The helmet shone like a globe of quicksilver, and lines of light gleamed on the burnished edge of the shield, or sparkled on the ornamental points of the more precious metals with which the various parts of his armour were decorated. Above all hung a loose mantle or cloak of dark-blue cloth, which was fastened on the right shoulder with a large circular brooch of silver.

The weight of this panoply was enormous, but long habit had so inured the young Norseman to the burthen of his armour that he moved under it as lightly as if it had been no heavier than his ordinary habiliments. Indeed, so little did it impede his movements that he could spring over chasms and mountain streams almost as well with as without it; and it was one of the boasts of his admiring friends that “he could leap his own height with all his war gear on!”

We have already referred to Erling’s partiality for the axe as an offensive weapon. This preference was in truth—strange though the assertion may appear—owing to the peculiar adaptation of that instrument to the preservation of life as well as the taking of it!

There are exceptions to all rules. The rule among the Northmen in former years was to slay and spare not. Erling’s tendency, and occasionally his practice, was to spare and not to slay, if he could do so with propriety. From experience he found that, by a slight motion of his wrist, the edge of his axe could be turned aside, and the blow which was delivered by its flat side was invariably sufficient, without killing, to render the recipient utterly incapable of continuing or renewing the combat—at least for a few days. With the sword this delicate manoeuvre could not be so easily accomplished, for a blow from the flat of a sword was not sufficiently crushing, and if delivered with great force the weapon was apt to break. Besides, Erling was a blunt, downright, straightforward man, and it harmonised more with his feelings, and the energy of his character, to beat down sword and shield and headpiece with one tremendous blow, than to waste time in fencing with a lighter weapon.

Having completed his toilet and concluded his meditations—which latter filled him with much perplexity, if one might judge from the frequency with which he shook his head—Erling the Bold hung Glumm’s long sword at his back, laid his huge axe on his shoulder, and, emerging from the smithy, strode rapidly along the bridle path that led to the residence of Ulf of Romsdal.

Suddenly it occurred to him that he had not yet tried the temper of his new weapon, so he stopped abruptly before a small pine tree, about as thick as a man’s arm. It stood on the edge of a precipice along the margin of which the track skirted. Swaying the axe once round his head, he brought it forcibly down on the stem, through which it passed as if it had been a willow wand, and the tree went crashing into the ravine below. The youth looked earnestly at his weapon, and nodded his head once or twice as if the result were satisfactory. A benignant smile played on his countenance as he replaced it on his shoulder and continued on his way.

A brisk walk of half an hour brought him to Ulfstede, where he found the men of the family making active preparations for the impending journey to the Thing. In the great hall of the house, his father held earnest discussion with Ulf. The house-carles busied themselves in burnishing their mail and sharpening their weapons, while Ada and Hilda assisted Dame Astrid, Ulf’s wife, to spread the board for the evening meal.

Everything in the hall was suggestive of rude wealth and barbarous warlike times. The hall itself was unusually large—capable of feasting at least two hundred men. At one end a raised hearth sustained a fire of wood that was large enough to have roasted an ox. The smoke from this, in default of a chimney, found an exit through a hole in the roof. The rafters were, of course, smoked to a deep rich coffee colour, and from the same cause the walls also partook not a little of that hue. All round these walls hung, in great profusion, shields, spears, swords, bows, skins, horns, and such like implements and trophies of war and the chase. The centre of the hall was open, but down each side ran two long tables, which were at this time groaning with great haunches of venison, legs of mutton, and trenchers of salmon, interspersed with platters of wild fowl, and flanked by tankards and horns of mead and ale. Most of the drinking cups were of horn, but many of these were edged with a rim of silver, and, opposite the raised seats of honour, in the centre of each table, the tankards were of solid silver, richly though rudely chased—square, sturdy, and massive, like the stout warriors who were wont to quaff their foaming contents.

“I tell thee, Ulf,” said Haldor, “thou wilt do wrong to fare to the Thing with men fully armed when the token was one of peace. The King is in no mood just now to brook opposition. If we would save our independence we must speak him smoothly.”

“I care not,” replied Ulf gruffly; “this is no time to go about unarmed.”

“Nay, I did not advise thee to go unarmed, but surely a short sword might suffice, and—”

At this moment Erling entered, and Ulf burst into a loud laugh as he interrupted his friend: “Aye, a short sword—something like that,” he said, pointing to the huge hilt which rose over the youth’s shoulder.

“Hey! lad,” exclaimed his father, “art going to fight with an axe in one hand and a sword in the other?”

“The sword is for Glumm, father. I owe him one after this morning’s work. Here, friend Glumm, buckle it on thy shoulder. The best wish that thou and I can exchange is, that thy sword and my axe may never kiss each other.”

“Truly, if they ever do, I know which will fare worst,” said Haldor, taking the axe and examining it, “Thou art fond of a weary arm, my lad, else ye would not have forged so weighty a weapon. Take my advice and leave it behind thee.”

“Come, come,” interrupted Ulf; “see, the tables are spread; let us use our jaws on food and drink, and not on words, for we shall need both to fit us for the work before us, and perchance we may have no longer need of either before many days go by. We can talk our fill at the Thing, an it so please us.”

“That will depend on the King’s pleasure,” replied Haldor, laughing.

“So much the more reason for taking our arms with us, in order that we may have the means of talking the King’s pleasure,” retorted Ulf with a frown; “but sit ye down at my right hand, Haldor, and Hilda will wait upon thee. Come, my men all—let us fall to.”

It is scarcely necessary to say that this invitation was accepted with alacrity. In a few minutes about fifty pairs of jaws were actively employed in the manner which Ulf recommended.

Meanwhile Erling the Bold seated himself at the lower end of one of the tables, in such a position that he could keep his eye on the outer door, and, if need be, steal away unobserved. He calculated that his little brother must soon return from his flying journey, and he expected to hear from him some news of the vikings. In this expectation he was right; but when Alric did come, Erling saw and heard more than he looked for.

The meal was about half concluded, and Ulf was in the act of pledging, not absent, but defunct, friends, when the door opened slowly, and Alric thrust his head cautiously in. His hair, dripping and tangled, bore evidence that his head at least had been recently immersed in water.

He caught sight of Erling, and the head was at once withdrawn. Next moment Erling stood outside of the house.

“How now, Alric, what has befallen thee? Hey! thou art soaking all over!”

“Come here; I’ll show you a fellow who will tell you all about it.”

In great excitement the boy seized his brother’s hand and dragged rather than led him round the end of the house, where the first object that met his view was a man whose face was covered with blood, which oozed from a wound in his forehead, while the heaving of his chest, and an occasional gasp, seemed to indicate that he had run far and swiftly.

Chapter Five.

The Viking Raid—Alric’s Adventure with the Dane—Erling’s Cutter, and the Battle in the Pass.

“Whom have we here?” exclaimed Erling, looking close into the face of the wounded man. “What! Swart of the Springs!”

Erling said this sternly, for he had no liking for Swart, who was a notorious character, belonging to one of the neighbouring fiords—a wild reckless fellow, and, if report said truly, a thief.

“That recent mischief has cost thee a cracked crown?” asked Erling, a little more gently, as he observed the exhausted condition of the man.

“Mischief enough,” said Swart, rising from the stone on which he had seated himself, and wiping the blood, dust, and sweat from his haggard face, while his eyes gleamed like coals of fire; “Skarpedin the Dane has landed in the fiord, my house is a smoking pile, my children and most of the people in the stede are burned, and the Springs run blood!”

There was something terrible in the hoarse whisper in which this was hissed out between the man’s teeth. Erling’s tone changed instantly as he laid his hand on Swart’s shoulder.

“Can this be true?” he answered anxiously; “are we too late? are all gone?”

“All,” answered Swart, “save the few fighting men that gained the fells.” The man then proceeded to give a confused and disjointed account of the raid, of which the following is the substance.

Skarpedin, a Danish viking, noted for his daring, cruelty, and success, had taken it into his head to visit the neighbourhood of Horlingdal, and repay in kind a visit which he had received in Denmark the previous summer from a party of Norsemen, on which occasion his crops had been burned, his cattle slaughtered, and his lands “herried”, while he chanced to be absent from home.

It must be observed that this deed of the Northmen was not deemed unusually wicked. It was their custom, and the custom also of their enemies, to go out every summer on viking cruise to plunder and ravage the coasts of Denmark, Sweden, Britain, and France, carrying off all the booty they could lay hold of, and as many prisoners as they wanted or could obtain. Then, returning home, they made slaves or “thralls” of their prisoners, often married the women, and spent the winter in the enjoyment of their plunder.

Among many other simple little habits peculiar to the times was that called “Strandhug”. It consisted in a viking, when in want of provisions, landing with his men on any coast—whether that of an enemy or a countryman—and driving as many cattle as he required to the shore, where they were immediately slaughtered and put on board without leave asked or received!

Skarpedin was influenced both by cupidity and revenge. Swart had been one of the chief leaders of the expedition which had done him so much damage. To the Springs therefore he directed his course with six “longships”, or ships of war, and about five hundred men.

In the afternoon of a calm day he reached the fiord at the head of which were the Springs and Swart’s dwelling. There was a small hamlet at the place, and upon this the vikings descended. So prompt and silent were they, that the men of the place had barely time to seize their arms and defend their homes. They fought like lions, for well they knew that there was no hope of mercy if they should be beaten. But the odds against them were overwhelming. They fell in heaps, with many of their foes underneath them. The few who remained to the last retreated fighting, step by step, each man towards his own dwelling, where he fell dead on its threshold. Swart himself, with a few of the bravest, had driven back that part of the enemy’s line which they attacked. Thus they were separated for a time from their less successful comrades, and it was not till the smoke of their burning homesteads rose up in dense clouds that they became aware of the true state of the fight. At once they turned and ran to the rescue of their families, but their retreat was cut off by a party of the enemy, and the roar of the conflagration told them that they were too late. They drew together, therefore, and, making a last desperate onset, hewed their way right through the ranks of their enemies, and made for the mountains. All were more or less wounded in the mêlée, and only one or two succeeded in effecting their escape. Swart dashed past his own dwelling in his flight, and found it already down on the ground in a blazing ruin. He killed several of the men who were about it, and then, bounding up the mountain side, sought refuge in a ravine.

Here he lay down to rest a few moments. During the brief period of his stay he saw several of his captured friends have their hands and feet chopped off by the marauders, while a terrible shriek that arose once or twice told him all too plainly that on a few of them had been perpetrated the not uncommon cruelty of putting out the eyes.

Swart did not remain many moments inactive. He descended by a circuitous path to the shore, and, keeping carefully out of sight, set off in the direction of Horlingdal. The distance between the two places was little more than nine or ten miles, but being separated from each other by a ridge of almost inaccessible mountains, that rose to a height of above five thousand feet, neither sight nor sound of the terrible tragedy enacted at the Springs could reach the eyes or ears of the inhabitants of Ulfstede. Swart ran round by the coast, and made such good use of his legs that he reached the valley in little more than an hour. Before arriving at Ulfstede his attention was attracted and his step arrested by the sight of a warship creeping along the fiord close under the shadow of the precipitous cliffs. He at once conjectured that this was one of the Danish vessels which had been dispatched to reconnoitre Horlingdal. He knew by its small size (having only about twenty oars) that it could not be there for the purpose of attack. He crouched, therefore, among the rocks to escape observation.

Now, it happened at this very time that Erling’s brother Alric, having executed his commission by handing the war-token to the next messenger, whose duty it was to pass it on, came whistling gaily down a neighbouring gorge, slashing the bushes as he went with a stout stick, which in the lad’s eyes represented the broadsword or battle-axe he hoped one day to wield, in similar fashion, on the heads of his foes. Those who knew Erling well could have traced his likeness in every act and gesture of the boy. The vikings happened to observe Alric before he saw them, as was not to be wondered at, considering the noise he made. They therefore rowed close in to the rocks, and their leader, a stout red-haired fellow, leaped on shore, ascended the cliffs by a narrow ledge or natural footpath, and came to a spot which overhung the sea, and round which the boy must needs pass. Here the man paused, and leaning on the haft of his battle-axe, awaited his coming up.

It is no disparagement to Alric to say that, when he found himself suddenly face to face with this man, his mouth opened as wide as did his eyes, that the colour fled from his cheeks, that his heart fluttered like a bird in a cage, and that his lips and tongue became uncommonly dry! Well did the little fellow know that one of the Danish vikings was before him, for many a time had he heard the men in Haldorstede describe their dress and arms minutely; and well did he know also that mercy was only to be purchased at the price of becoming an informer as to the state of affairs in Horlingdal—perhaps a guide to his father’s house. Besides this, Alric had never up to that time beheld a real foe, even at a distance! He would have been more than mortal, therefore, had he shown no sign of trepidation.

“Thou art light of heart, lad,” said the Dane with a grim smile.

Alric would perhaps have replied that his heart was the reverse of light at that moment, but his tongue refused to fulfil its office, so he sighed deeply, and tried to lick his parched lips instead.

“Thou art on thy way to Ulfstede or Haldorstede, I suppose?” said the man.

Alric nodded by way of reply.

“To which?” demanded the Dane sternly.

“T–to—to Ulf—”

“Ha!” interrupted the man. “I see. I am in want of a guide thither. Wilt guide me, lad?”

At this the truant blood rushed back to Alric’s cheeks. He attempted to say no, and to shake his head, but the tongue was still rebellious, and the head would not move—at least not in that way—so the poor boy glanced slightly aside, as if meditating flight. The Dane, without altering his position, just moved his foot on the stones, which act had the effect of causing the boy’s eyes to turn full on him again with that species of activity which cats are wont to display when expecting an immediate assault.

“Escape is impossible,” said the Dane, with another grim smile.

Alric glanced at the precipice on his left, full thirty feet deep, with the sea below; at the precipice on his right, which rose an unknown height above; at the steep rugged path behind, and at the wild rugged man in front, who could have clutched him with one bound; and admitted in his heart that escape was impossible.

“Now, lad,” continued the viking, “thou wilt go with me and point out the way to Ulfstede and Haldorstede; if not with a good will, torture shall cause thee to do it against thy will; and after we have plundered and burnt both, we will give thee a cruise to Denmark, and teach thee the use of the pitchfork and reaping-hook.”

This remark touched a chord in Alric’s breast which at once turned his thoughts from himself, and allowed his native courage to rise. During the foregoing dialogue his left hand had been nervously twitching the little elm bow which it carried. It now grasped the bow firmly as he replied:

“Ulfstede and Haldorstede may burn, but thou shalt not live to see it.”

With that he plucked an arrow from his quiver, fitted it to the string, and discharged it full at the Dane’s throat. Quick as thought the man of war sprang aside, but the shaft had been well and quickly aimed. It passed through his neck between the skin and the flesh.

A cry of anger burst from him as he leaped on the boy and caught him by the throat. He hastily felt for the hilt of his dagger, and in the heat of his rage would assuredly have ended the career of poor Alric then and there; but, missing the hilt at the first grasp, he suddenly changed his mind, lifted the boy as if he had been a little dog, and flung him over the precipice into the sea.

A fall of thirty feet, even though water should be the recipient of the shock, is not a trifle by any means, but Alric was one of those vigorous little fellows—of whom there are fortunately many in this world—who train themselves to feats of strength and daring. Many a time had he, when bathing, leaped off that identical cliff into the sea for his own amusement, and to the admiration and envy of many of his companions, and, now that he felt himself tumbling in the air against his will, the sensation, although modified, was nothing new. He straightened himself out after the manner of a bad child that does not wish to sit on nurse’s knee, and went into the blue fiord, head foremost, like a javelin.

He struck the water close to the vessel of his enemies, and on rising to the surface one of them made a plunge at him with an oar, which, had it taken effect, would have killed him on the spot; but he missed his aim, and before he could repeat it, the boy had dived.

The Dane was sensible of his error the instant he had tossed Alric away from him, so he hastened to his boat, leaped into it, and ordered the men to pull to the rocks near to which Alric had dived; but before they could obey the order a loud ringing cheer burst from the cliffs, and in another moment the form of Swart was seen on a ledge, high above, in the act of hurling a huge mass of rock down on the boat. The mass struck the cliff in its descent, burst into fragments, and fell in a shower upon the Danes.

At the same time Swart waved his hand as if to someone behind him, and shouted with stentorian voice:

“This way, men! Come on! Down into the boats and give chase! huzza!”

The enemy did not await the result of the order, but pulled out into the fiord as fast as possible, while Swart ran down to the edge of the water and assisted Alric to land. It was not until they heard both man and boy utter a cheer of defiance, and burst into a fit of laughter, and saw them hastening at full speed towards Horlingdal, that the vikings knew they had been duped. It was too late, however, to remedy the evil. They knew, also, that they might now expect an immediate attack, so, bending to the oars with all their might, they hastened off to warn their comrades at the Springs.

“Now, Swart,” said Erling, after hearing this tale to its conclusion, “if ye are not too much exhausted to—”

“Exhausted!” cried Swart, springing up as though he had but risen from a refreshing slumber.

“Well, I see thou art still fit for the fight. Revenge, like love, is a powerful stirrer of the blood. Come along then; I will lead the way, and do thou tread softly and keep silence. Follow us, Alric, I have yet more work for thee, lad.”

Taking one of the numerous narrow paths that ran from Ulfstede to the shores of the fiord, Erling led his companions to a grassy mound which crowned the top of a beetling cliff whose base was laved by deep water. Although the night was young—probably two hours short of midnight—the sun was still high in the heavens, for in most parts of Norway that luminary, during the height of summer, sinks but a short way below the horizon—they have daylight all night for some time. In the higher latitudes the sun, for a brief period, shines all the twenty-four hours round. Erling could therefore see far and wide over the fiord, as well as if it were the hour of noon.

“Nothing in sight!” he exclaimed in a tone of chagrin. “I was a fool to let thee talk so long, Swart; but there is still a chance of catching the boat before it rounds the ness. Come along.”

Saying this hurriedly, the youth descended into what appeared to be a hole in the ground. A rude zigzag stair cut in the rock conducted them into a subterranean cavern, which at first seemed to be perfectly dark; but in a few seconds their eyes became accustomed to the dim light, and as they advanced rapidly over a bed of pebbles, Swart, who had never been there before, discovered that he was in an ocean-made cave, for the sound of breaking ripples fell softly on his ears. On turning round a corner of rock the opening of the cave towards the sea suddenly appeared with a dazzling light like a great white gem.

But another beautiful sight met his astonished gaze. This was Erling’s ship of war, the Swan, which, with its figurehead erect, as though it were a living thing, sat gracefully on the water, above its own reflected image.

“All ready?” asked Erling, as a man stepped up to him.

“All ready,” replied Thorer.

“Get on board, Swart,” said Erling; “we will teach these Danes a lesson they will not forget as long as the Springs flow. Here, Alric—where are ye, lad?”

Now, unfortunately for himself, as well as for his friend, Alric was almost too self-reliant in his nature. His active mind was too apt to exert itself in independent thought in circumstances where it would have been wiser to listen and obey. Erling had turned with the intention of telling his little brother that he had started thus quietly in order that he might have the pleasure of capturing the scouting boat, and of beginning the fight at the Springs with a small band of tried men, thus keeping the enemy in play until reinforcements should arrive; for he shrewdly suspected that if the whole valley were to go out at once against the vikings, they would decline the combat and make off. He had intended, therefore, to have warned Alric to watch the Swan past a certain point before sounding the alarm at Ulfstede. But Alric had already formed his own opinions on the subject, and resolved to act on them.

He suspected that Erling, in his thirst for glory, meant to have all the fun to himself, and to attack the Danes with his single boat’s crew of fifty or sixty men. He knew enough of war to be aware that sixty men against six hundred would have very small chance of success—in fact, that the thing was sheer madness—so he resolved to balk, and by so doing to save, his headstrong brother.

When Erling turned, as we have said, he beheld Alric running into the cave at full speed. Instantly suspecting the truth, he dashed after him, but the boy was fleet, and Erling was heavily armed. The result was, that the former escaped, while the latter returned to the beach and embarked in the Swan in a most unenviable state of mind.

Erling’s “longship” was one of the smaller-sized war vessels of the period. It pulled twenty oars—ten on each side—and belonged to the class named Snekiars, or cutters, which usually had from ten to twenty rowers on a side. To each oar three men were apportioned—one to row, one to shield the rower, and one to throw missiles and fight, so that her crew numbered over sixty men. The forecastle and poop were very high, and the appearance of height was still further increased by the figurehead—the neck and head of a swan—and by a tail that rose from the stern-post, over the steersman’s head. Both head and tail were richly gilt; indeed, the whole vessel was gaudily painted. All round the gunwales, from stem to stern, hung a row of shining red and white shields, which resembled the scaly sides of some fabulous creature, so that when the oars, which gave it motion, and not inaptly represented legs, were dipped, the vessel glided swiftly out of the cavern, like some antediluvian monster issuing from its den and crawling away over the dark blue sea. A tall heavy mast rose from the centre of the ship. Its top was also gilded, as well as the tips of the heavy yard attached to it. On this they hoisted a huge square sail, which was composed of alternate stripes of red, white, and blue cloth.

It need scarcely be said that Erling’s crew pulled with a will, and that the waters of the fiord curled white upon the breast of the Swan that night; but the vikings’ boat had got too long a start of them, so that, when they doubled the ness and pulled towards the Springs, they discovered the enemy hurrying into their ships and preparing to push off from the land.

Now, this did not fall in with Erling’s purpose at all, for he was well aware that his little Swan could do nothing against such an overwhelming force, so he directed his course towards the mouth of a small stream, beside which there was a spit of sand, and, just behind it, a piece of level land, of a few acres in extent, covered with short grass. The river was deep at its mouth. About a hundred yards upstream it flowed out of a rugged pass in the mountains or cliffs which hemmed in the fiord. Into this dark spot the Northman rowed his vessel and landed with his men.

The vikings were much surprised at this manoeuvre, and seemed at a loss how to act, for they immediately ceased their hurried embarkation and held a consultation.

“Methinks they are mad,” said Skarpedin, on witnessing the movements of the Swan. “But we will give them occasion to make use of all the spirit that is in them. I had thought there were more men in the dale, but if they be few they seem to be bold. They have wisely chosen their ground. Rocks, however, will not avail them against a host like ours. Methinks some of us will be in Valhalla to-night.”

Saying this Skarpedin drew up his men in order of battle on the little plain before referred to, and advanced to the attack. Erling, on the other hand, posted his men among the rocks in such a way that they could command the approach to the pass, which their leader with a few picked men defended.

On perceiving the intention of the Danes to attack him, Erling’s heart was glad, because he now felt sure that to some extent he had them in his power. If they had, on his first appearance, taken to their ships, they might have easily escaped, or some of the smaller vessels might have pulled up the river and attacked his ship, which, in that case, would have had to meet them on unequal terms; but, now that they were about to attack him on land, he knew that he could keep them in play as long as he pleased, and that if they should, on the appearance of reinforcements, again make for their ships, he could effectively harass them, and retard their embarkation.

Meditating on these things the young Norseman stood in front of his men leaning on his battle-axe, and calmly surveying the approaching foe until they were within a few yards of him.

“Thorer,” he said at length, raising his weapon slowly to his shoulder, “take thou the man with the black beard, and leave yonder fellow with the red hair to me.”

Thorer drew his sword and glanced along its bright blade without replying. Indeed, there was scarce time for reply. Next moment the combatants uttered a loud shout and met with a dire crash. For some time the clash of steel, the yells of maddened men, the shrieks of the wounded, and the wails of the dying, resounded in horrible commotion among the echoing cliffs. The wisdom of Erling’s tactics soon became apparent. It was not until the onset was made, and the battle fairly begun, that the men whom he had placed among the rocks above the approach to the pass began to act. These now sent down such a shower of huge stones and masses of rock that many of the foe were killed, and by degrees a gap was made, so that those who were on the plain dared not advance to the succour of those who were fighting in the pass.

Seeing this, Erling uttered his war-cry, and, collecting his men together, acted on the offensive. Wherever his battle-axe swung, or Thorer’s sword gleamed, there men fell, and others gave way, till at last they were driven completely out of the pass and partly across the plain. Erling took care, however, not to advance too far, although Skarpedin, by retreating, endeavoured to entice him to do so; but drew off his men by sound of horn, and returned to his old position—one man only having been killed and a few wounded.

Skarpedin now held a council of war with his chiefs, and from the length of time they were about it, Erling was led to suspect that they did not intend to renew the attack at the same point or in the same manner. He therefore sent men to points of vantage on the cliffs to observe the more distant movements of the enemy, while he remained to guard the pass, and often gazed anxiously towards the ness, round which he expected every minute to see sweeping the longships of Ulf and his father.

Chapter Six.

Evening in the Hall—The Scald tells of Gundalf’s Wooing—The Feast Interrupted and the War Clouds Thicken.

It is necessary now that we should turn backwards a little in our story, to that point where Erling left the hall at Ulfstede to listen to the sad tale of Swart.

Ulf and his friends, not dreaming of the troubles that were hanging over them, continued to enjoy their evening meal and listen to the songs and stories of the Scald, or to comment upon the doings of King Harald Haarfager, and the prospects of good or evil to Norway that were likely to result therefrom.

At the point where we return to the hall, Ulf wore a very clouded brow as he sat with compressed lips beside his principal guest. He grasped the arm of his rude chair with his left hand, while his right held a large and massive silver tankard. Haldor, on the other hand, was all smiles and good humour. He appeared to have been attempting to soothe the spirit of his fiery neighbour.

“I tell thee, Ulf, that I have as little desire to see King Harald succeed in subduing all Norway as thou hast, but in this world wise men will act not according to what they wish so much, as according to what is best. Already the King has won over or conquered most of the small kings, and it seems to me that the rest will have to follow, whether they like it or no. Common sense teaches submission where conquest cannot be.”

“And does not patriotism teach that men may die?” said Ulf sternly.

“Aye, when by warring with that end in view anything is to be gained for one’s country; but where the result would be, first, the embroiling of one’s district in prolonged bloody and hopeless warfare, and, after that, the depriving one’s family of its head and of the King’s favour, patriotism says that to die would be folly, not wisdom.”

“Tush, man; folk will learn to call thee Haldor the Mild. Surely years are telling on thee. Was there ever anything in this world worth having gained without a struggle?”

“Thou knowest, Ulf, that I am not wont to be far from the front wherever or whenever a struggle is thought needful, but I doubt the propriety of it in the present case. The subject, however, is open to discussion. The question is, whether it would be better for Norway that the kings of Horlingdal should submit to the conqueror for the sake of the general good, or buckle on the sword in the hope of retrieving what is lost. Peace or war—that is the question.”

“I say war!” cried Ulf, striking the board so violently with his clenched fist that the tankards and platters leaped and rang again.

At this a murmur of applause ran round the benches of the friends and housemen.

“The young blades are ever ready to huzza over their drink at the thought of fighting; but methinks it will not strengthen thy cause much, friend Ulf, thus to frighten the women and spill the ale.”

Ulf turned round with a momentary look of anger at this speech. The man who uttered it was a splendid specimen of a veteran warrior. His forehead was quite bald, but from the sides and back of his head flowed a mass of luxuriant silky hair which was white as the driven snow. His features were eminently firm and masculine, and there was a hearty good-humoured expression about the mouth, and a genial twinkle in his eyes, especially in the wrinkled corners thereof, that rendered the stout old man irresistibly attractive. His voice was particularly rich, deep, and mellow, like that of a youth, and although his bulky frame stooped a little from age, there was enough of his youthful vigour left to render him a formidable foe, as many a poor fellow had learned to his cost even in days but recently gone by. He was an uncle of Ulf, and on a visit to the stede at that time. The frown fled from Ulf’s brow as he looked in the old man’s ruddy and jovial countenance.

“Thanks, Guttorm,” said he, seizing his tankard, “thanks for reminding me that grey hairs are beginning to sprinkle my beard; come, let us drink success to the right, confusion to the wrong! thou canst not refuse that, Haldor.”

“Nay,” said Haldor, laughing; “nor will I refuse to fight in thy cause and by thy side, be it right or wrong, when the Thing decides for war.”

“Well said, friend! but come, drink deeper. Why, I have taken thee down three pegs already!” said Ulf, glancing into Haldor’s tankard. “Ho! Hilda; fetch hither more ale, lass, and fill—fill to the brim.” The toast was drunk with right good will by all—from Ulf down to the youngest house-carle at the lowest end of the great hall.

“And now, Guttorm,” continued Ulf, turning to the bluff old warrior, “since thou hast shown thy readiness to rebuke, let us see thy willingness to entertain. Sing us a stave or tell us a saga, kinsman, as well thou knowest how, being gifted with more than a fair share of the scald’s craft.”

The applause with which this proposal was received by the guests and house-carles who crowded the hall from end to end proved that they were aware of Guttorm’s gifts, and would gladly hear him. Like a sensible man he complied at once, without affecting that air of false diffidence which is so common among modern songsters and story-tellers.

“I will tell you,” said the old man—having previously wet his lips at a silver tankard, which was as bluff and genuine as himself—“of King Gundalf’s wooing. Many years have gone by since I followed him on viking cruise, and Gundalf himself has long been feasting in Odin’s hall. I was a beardless youth when I joined him. King Gundalf of Orkedal was a goodly man, stout and brisk, and very strong. He could leap on his horse without touching stirrup with all his war gear on; he could fight as well with his left hand as with his right, and his battle-axe bit so deep that none who once felt its edge lived to tell of its weight. He might well be called a Sea-king, for he seldom slept under a sooty roof timber. Withal he was very affable to his men, open-hearted, and an extremely handsome man.

“One summer he ordered us to get ready to go on viking cruise. When we were all a-boun we set sail with five longships and about four hundred men, and fared away to Denmark, where we forayed and fought a great battle with the inhabitants. King Gundalf gained the victory, plundered, wasted, and burned far and wide in the land, and made enormous booty. He returned with this to Orkedal. Here he found his wife at the point of death, and soon after she died. Gundalf felt his loss so much that he had no pleasure in Raumsdal after that. He therefore took to his ships and went again a-plundering. We herried first in Friesland, next in Saxland, and then all the way to Flanders; so sings Halfred the scald:—

“‘Gundalf’s axe of shining steel
For the sly wolf left many a meal.
The ill-shaped Saxon corpses lay
Heap’d up—the witch-wife’s horses’ prey.
She rides by night, at pools of blood,
Where Friesland men in daylight stood,
Her horses slake their thirst, and fly
On to the field where Flemings lie.’”

(Note. Ravens were the witch-wife’s horses.)

The old warrior half recited half sang these lines in a rich full voice, and then paused a few seconds, while a slight murmur arose from the earnest listeners around him.

“Thereafter,” resumed Guttorm, “we sailed to England, and ravaged far and wide in the land. We sailed all the way north to Northumberland, where we plundered, and thence to Scotland, where we marauded far and wide. Then we went to the Hebrides and fought some battles, and after that south to Man, which we herried. We ravaged far around in Ireland, and steered thence to Bretland, which we laid waste with fire and sword—also the district of Cumberland. Then we went to Valland, (the west coast of France) from which we fared away for the south coast of England, but missed it and made the Scilly Isles. After that we went to Ireland again, and came to a harbour, into which we ran—but in a friendly way, for we had as much plunder as our ships could carry.

“Now, while we were there, a summons to a Thing went through the country, and when the Thing was assembled, a queen called Gyda came to it. She was a sister of Olaf Quarram, who was King of Dublin. Gyda was very wealthy, and her husband had died that year. In the territory there was a man called Alfin, who was a great champion and single-combat man. He had paid his addresses to Gyda, but she gave for answer that she would choose a husband for herself; and on that account the Thing was assembled, that she might choose a husband. Alfin came there dressed out in his best clothes, and there were many well-dressed men at the meeting. Gundalf and some of his men had gone there also, out of curiosity, but we had on our bad-weather clothes, and Gundalf wore a coarse over-garment. We stood apart from the rest of the crowd, Gyda went round and looked at each, to see if any appeared to her a suitable man. Now when she came to where we were standing, she passed most of us by with a glance; but when she passed me, I noticed that she turned half round and gave me another look, which I have always held was a proof of her good judgment. However, Gyda passed on, and when she came to King Gundalf she stopped, looked at him straight in the face, and asked what sort of a man he was.

“He said, ‘I am called Gundalf, and am a stranger here!’

“Gyda replies, ‘Wilt thou have me if I choose thee?’ He answered, ‘I will not say No to that;’ then he asked her what her name was, and her family and descent.

“‘I am called Gyda,’ said she, ‘and am daughter of the King of Ireland, and was married in this country to an earl who ruled over this district. Since his death I have ruled over it, and many have courted me, but none to whom I would choose to be married.’

“She was a young and handsome woman. They afterwards talked over the matter together and agreed, and so Gundalf and Gyda were betrothed.

“Alfin was very ill pleased with this. It was the custom there, as it is sometimes here, if two strove for anything, to settle the matter by holm-gang. (Note: or single combat: so called because the combatants in Norway went to a holm, or uninhabited isle, to fight.) And now Alfin challenged Gundalf to fight about this business. The time and place of combat were settled, and it was fixed that each should have twelve men. I was one of the twelve on our side. When we met, Gundalf told us to do exactly as we saw him do. He had a large axe, and went in advance of us, and when Alfin made a desperate cut at him with his sword, he hewed away the sword out of his hand, and with the next blow hit Alfin on the crown with the flat of his axe and felled him. We all met next moment, and each man did his best; but it was hard work, for the Irishmen fought well, and two of them cut down two of our men, but one of these I knocked down, and Gundalf felled the other. Then we bound them all fast, and carried them to Gundalf’s lodging. But Gundalf did not wish to take Alfin’s life. He ordered him to quit the country and never again to appear in it, and he took all his property. In this way Gundalf got Gyda in marriage, and he lived sometimes in England and sometimes in Ireland. Thikskul the scald says in regard to this:—

“‘King Gundalf woo’d Queen Gyda fair,
With whom no woman could compare,
And won her, too, with all her lands,
By force of looks and might of hands
From Ireland’s green and lovely isle
He carried off the Queen in style.
He made proud Alfin’s weapon dull,
And flattened down his stupid skull—
This did the bold King Gundalf do
When he went o’er the sea to woo.’”

The wholesale robbery and murder which was thus related by the old Norse viking appeared quite a natural and proper state of things in the eyes of all save two of those assembled in the hall, and the saga was consequently concluded amid resounding applause. It is to be presumed that, never having seen or heard of any other course of life, and having always been taught that such doings were quite in accordance with the laws of the land, the consciences of the Northmen did not trouble them. At all events, while we do not for a moment pretend to justify their doings, we think it right to point out that there must necessarily have been a wide difference between their spirits and feelings, and the spirits and feelings of modern pirates, who know that they are deliberately setting at defiance the laws of both God and man.

It has been said there were two in the hall at Ulfstede who did not sympathise with the tale of the old warrior. The reader will scarce require to be told that one of these was Hilda the Sunbeam. The other was Christian the hermit. The old man, although an occasional visitor at the stede, never made his appearance at meal-times, much less at the nightly revels which were held there; but on that day he had arrived with important news, just as Guttorm began his story, and would have unceremoniously interrupted it had not one of the young house-carles, who did not wish to lose the treat, detained him forcibly at the lower end of the hall until it was ended. The moment he was released the hermit advanced hastily, and told Ulf that from the door of his hut on the cliff he had observed bands of men hastening in all directions down the dale.

“Thy news, old man, is no news,” said Ulf; “the token for a Thing has been sent out, and it is natural that the bonders should obey the summons. We expect them. But come, it is not often thou favourest us with thy company. Sit down by me, and take a horn of mead.”

The hermit shook his head.

“I never taste strong liquor. Its tendency is to make wise men foolish,” he said.

“Nay, then, thou wilt not refuse to eat. Here, Hilda, fetch thy friend a platter.”

“I thank thee, but, having already supped, I need no more food. I came but to bring what I deemed news.”

“Thou art churlish, old man,” exclaimed Ulf angrily; “sit down and drink, else—”

“Come, come,” interrupted Haldor, laying his hand on Ulf’s arm, “Let the old man be; he seems to think that he has something worth hearing to tell of; let him have his say out in peace.”

“Go on,” said Ulf gruffly.

“Was the token sent out a baton or a split arrow?” asked the hermit.

“A baton,” said Ulf.

“Then why,” rejoined the other, “do men come to a peaceful Thing with all their war gear on?”

“What say ye? are they armed?” exclaimed Ulf, starting up. “This must be looked to. Ho! my carles all, to arms—”

At that moment there was a bustle at the lower end of the hall, and Alric was seen forcing his way towards Ulf’s high seat.

“Father,” he said eagerly, addressing Haldor, “short is the hour for acting, and long the hour for feasting.”

Haldor cast his eyes upon his son and said—

“What now is in the way?”

“The Danes,” said Alric, “are on the fiord—more than six hundred men. Skarpedin leads them. One of them pitched me into the sea, but I marked his neck to keep myself in his memory! They have plundered and burnt at the Springs, and Erling has gone away to attack them all by himself, with only sixty house-carles. You will have to be quick, father.”

“Quick, truly,” said Haldor, with a grim smile, as he drew tight the buckle of his sword-belt.

“Aye,” said Ulf, “with six hundred Danes on the fiord, and armed men descending the vale, methinks—”

“Oh! I can explain that” cried Alric, with an arch smile; “Erling made me change the baton for the split arrow when I was sent round with the token.”

“That is good luck,” said Haldor, while Ulf’s brow cleared a little as he busked himself for the fight; “we shall need all our force.”

“Aye, and all our time too,” said Guttorm Stoutheart, as he put on his armour with the cheerful air of a man who dons his wedding dress. “Come, my merry men all. Lucky it is that my longships are at hand just now ready loaded with stones:—

“‘O! a gallant sight it is to me,
The warships darting o’er the sea,
A pleasant sound it is to hear
The war trump ringing loud and clear.’”

Ulf and his friends and house-carles were soon ready to embark, for in those days the Norseman kept his weapons ready to his hands, being accustomed to sudden assaults and frequent alarms. They streamed out of the hall, and while some collected stones, to be used as missiles, others ran down to the shore to launch the ships. Meanwhile Ulf, Haldor, Guttorm, and other chief men held a rapid consultation, as they stood and watched the assembling of the men of the district.

It was evident that the split arrow had done its duty. From the grassy mound on which they stood could be seen, on the one hand, the dark recesses of Horlingdal, which were lost in the mists of distance among the glaciers on the fells; and, on the other hand, the blue fiord with branching inlets and numerous holms, while the skerries of the coast filled up the background—looming faint and far off on the distant sea. In whatever direction the eye was turned armed men were seen. From every distant gorge and valley on the fells they issued, singly, or in twos and threes. As they descended the dale they formed into groups and larger bands; and when they gained the more level grounds around Haldorstede, the heavy tread of their hastening footsteps could be distinctly heard, while the sun—for although near midnight now it was still above the horizon—flashed from hundreds of javelins, spears, swords, and bills, glittered on steel headpieces and the rims of shields, or trickled fitfully on suits of scale armour and shirts of ring mail. On the fiord, boats came shooting forth from every inlet or creek, making their appearance from the base of precipitous cliffs or dark-mouthed caves as if the very mountains were bringing forth warriors to aid in repelling the foe. These were more sombre than those on the fells, because the sun had set to them by reason of the towering hills, and the fiord was shrouded in deepest gloom. But all in the approaching host—on water and land—were armed from head to foot, and all converged towards Ulfstede.

When they were all assembled they numbered five hundred fighting men—and a stouter or more valiant band never went forth to war. Six longships were sufficient to embark them. Three of these were of the largest size—having thirty oars on each side, and carrying a hundred men. One of them belonged to Haldor, one to Ulf, and one—besides several smaller ships—to Guttorm, who chanced to be on viking cruise at the time he had turned aside to visit his kinsman. The warlike old man could scarce conceal his satisfaction at his unexpected good fortune in being so opportunely at hand when hard blows were likely to be going! Two of the other ships were cutters, similar to Erling’s Swan, and carrying sixty men each, and one was a little larger, holding about eighty men. It belonged to Glumm the Gruff; whose gruffness, however, had abated considerably, now that there was a prospect of what we moderns would call “letting the steam off” in a vigorous manner.

Soon the oars were dipped in the fiord, and the sails were set, for a light favourable wind was blowing. In a short time the fleet rounded the ness, and came in sight of the ground where Erling and Skarpedin were preparing to renew the combat.

Chapter Seven.

The Tale Returns to the Springs—Describes a Great Land Fight, and Tells of a Peculiar Style of Extending Mercy to the Vanquished.

In a previous chapter we left Skarpedin discussing with his chiefs the best mode of attacking the small band of his opponents in the pass of the Springs. They had just come to a decision, and were about to act on it, when they suddenly beheld six warships sweeping round the ness.

“Now will we have to change our plans,” said Skarpedin.

Thorvold agreed with this, and counselled getting on board their ships and meeting the enemy on the water; but the other objected, because he knew that while his men were in the act of embarking, Erling would sally forth and kill many of them before they could get away.

“Methinks,” said he, “I will take forty of my best men, and try to entice that fox out of his hole, before he has time to see the ships.”

“Grief only will come of that,” says Thorvold.

Skarpedin did not reply, but choosing forty of his stoutest carles he went to the pass and defied Erling to come out and fight.

“Now here am I, Erling, with forty men. Wilt thou come forth? or is thy title of Bold ill bestowed, seeing thou hast more men than I?”

“Ill should I deserve the title,” replies Erling, “if I were to meet thee with superior force.”

With that he chose thirty men, and, running down to the plain, gave the assault so fiercely that men fell fast on every side, and the Danes gave back a little. When they saw this, and that Erling and Thorer hewed men down wherever they went, the Danes made a shield circle round Skarpedin, as was the custom when kings went into battle; because they knew that if he fell there would be no one so worthy to guide them in the fight with the approaching longships. Thus they retreated, fighting. When Erling and his men had gone far enough, they returned to the pass, and cheered loudly as they went, both because of the joy of victory, and because they saw the warships of their friends coming into the bay.

King Haldor and his companions at once ran their ships on the beach near the mouth of the river, and, landing, drew them up, intending to fight on shore. Skarpedin did not try to prevent this, for he was a bold man, and thought that with so large a force he could well manage to beat the Northmen, if they would fight on level ground. He therefore drew up his men in order of battle at one end of the plain, and Haldor the Fierce, to whom was assigned the chief command, drew up the Northmen at the other end. Erling joined them with his band, and then it was seen that the two armies were not equal—that of the Northmen being a little smaller than the other.

Then Haldor said, “Let us draw up in a long line that they may not turn our flanks, as they have most men.”

This was done, and Haldor advanced into the plain and set up his banner. The Danes in like manner advanced and planted their banner, and both armies rushed to the attack, which was very sharp and bloody. Wherever the battle raged most fiercely there King Haldor and Erling were seen, for they were taller by half a head than most other men. Being clothed alike in almost every respect, they looked more like brothers than father and son. Each wore a gilt helmet, and carried a long shield, the centre of which was painted white, but round the edge was a rim of burnished steel. Each had a sword by his side, and carried a javelin to throw, but both depended chiefly on their favourite weapon, the battle-axe, for, being unusually strong, they knew that few men could withstand the weight of a blow from that. The defensive armour of father and son was also the same—a shirt of leather, sewed all over with small steel rings. Their legs were clothed in armour of the same kind, and a mantle of cloth hung from the shoulders of each.

Most of the chief men on both sides were armed in a similar way, though not quite so richly, and with various modifications; for instance, the helmet of Thorvold was of plain steel, and for ornament had the tail of the ptarmigan as its crest. Skarpedin’s, on the other hand, was quite plain, but partly gilded; his armour was of pieces of steel like fish scales sewed on a leathern shirt, and over his shoulders he wore as a mantle the skin of a wolf. His chief weapon was a bill—a sort of hook or short scythe fixed to a pole, and it was very deadly in his hands. Most of the carles and thralls were content to wear thick shirts of wolf and other skins, which were found to offer good resistance to a sword-cut, and some of them had portions of armour of various kinds. Their arms were spears, bows, arrows with stone heads, javelins, swords, bills, and battle-axes and shields.

When both lines met there was a hard fight. The combatants first threw their spears and javelins, and then drew their swords and went at each other in the greatest fury. In the centre Haldor and Erling went together in advance of their banner, cutting down on both sides of them. Old Guttorm Stoutheart went in advance of the right wing, also hewing down right and left. With him went Kettle Flatnose, for that ambitious thrall could not be made to remember his position, and was always putting himself in front of his betters in war; yet it is due to him to say that he kept modestly in the background in time of peace. To these was opposed Thorvold, with many of the stoutest men among the Danes.

Now, old Guttorm and Kettle pressed on so hard that they were almost separated from their men; and while Guttorm was engaged with a very tall and strong man, whom he had wounded severely more than once, another stout fellow came between him and Kettle, and made a cut at him with his sword. Guttorm did not observe him, and it seemed as if the old Stoutheart should get his death-wound there; but the thrall chanced to see what was going on. He fought with a sort of hook, like a reaping-hook, fixed at the end of a spear handle, with the cutting edge inside. The men of Horlingdal used to laugh at Kettle because of his fondness for this weapon, which was one of his own contriving; but when they did so, he was wont to reply that it was better than most other weapons, because it could not only make his friends laugh, but his enemies cry!

With this hook the thrall made a quick blow at the Dane; the point of it went down through his helmet into his brain, and that was his deathblow.

“Well done, Kettle!” cried old Guttorm, who had just cleft the skull of his opponent with his sword.

At this Thorvold ran forward and said:

“Well done it may be, but well had it been for the doer had it not been done. Come on, thou flatnose!”

“Now, thou must be a remarkably clever man,” retorted Kettle, with much of that rich tone of voice which, many centuries later, came to be known as “the Irish brogue”, “for it is plain ye know my name without being told it!”

So saying, with a sudden quick movement he got his hook round Thorvold’s neck.

“That is an ugly grip,” said Thorvold, making a fierce cut at the haft with his sword; but Kettle pulled the hook to him, and with it came the head, and that was Thorvold’s end.

While this was going on at the right wing, the left wing was led by Ulf of Romsdal and Glumm the Gruff; but Ulf’s men were not so good as Haldor’s men, for he was not so wise a man as Haldor, and did not manage his house so well.

It was a common saying among the people of Horlingdal that Haldor had under him the most valiant men in Norway—and as the master was, so were the men. Haldor never went to sea with less than a fully-manned ship of thirty benches of rowers, and had other large vessels and men to man them as well. One of his ships had thirty-two benches of rowers, and could carry at least two hundred men. He had always at home on his farm thirty slaves or thralls, besides other serving people, and about two hundred house-carles. He used to give his thralls a certain day’s work; but after it was done he gave them leave and leisure to work in the twilight and at night for themselves. He gave them arable land to sow corn in, and let them apply their crops to their own use. He fixed a certain quantity of work, by the doing of which his slaves might work themselves free; and this put so much heart into them that many of them worked themselves free in one year, and all who had any luck or pluck could work themselves free in three years. Ulf did this too, but he was not so wise nor yet so kind in his way of doing it. With the money thus procured Haldor bought other slaves. Some of his freed people he taught to work in the herring fishery; to others he taught some handicraft; in short, he helped all of them to prosperity; so that many of the best of them remained fast by their old master, although free to take service where they chose. Thus it was that his men were better than those of his neighbour.

Ulf’s men were, nevertheless, good stout fellows, and they fought valiantly; but it so happened that the wing of the enemy to which they were opposed was commanded by Skarpedin, of whom it was said that he was equal to any six men. In spite, therefore, of the courage and the strength of Ulf and Glumm, the Northmen in that part of the field began slowly to give back. Ulf and Glumm were so maddened at this that they called their men cowards, and resolved to go forward till they should fall. Uttering their war-cry, they made a desperate charge, hewing down men like stalks of corn; but although this caused the Danes to give way a little, they could not advance, not being well backed, but stood fighting, and merely kept their ground.

Now it had chanced shortly before this, that Haldor stayed his hand and drew back with Erling. They went out from the front of the fight, and observed the left wing giving way.

“Come, let us aid them,” cried Haldor.

Saying this he ran to the left wing, with Erling by his side. They two uttered a war-cry that rose high above the din of battle like a roar of thunder, and, rushing to the front, fell upon the foe. Their gilt helmets rose above the crowd, and their ponderous axes went swinging round their heads, continually crashing down on the skulls of the Danes. With four such men as Haldor, Erling, Ulf and Glumm in front, the left wing soon regained its lost ground and drove back the Danes. Nothing could withstand the shock. Skarpedin saw what had occurred, and immediately hastened to the spot where Haldor stood, sweeping down all who stood in his way.

“I have been searching for thee, Erling,” he cried, going up to Haldor, and launching a javelin.

Haldor caught it on his shield, which it pierced through, but did him no hurt.

“Mistaken thou art, but thou hast found me now,” cried Erling, thrusting his father aside and leaping upon the Dane.

Skarpedin changed his bill to his left hand, drew his sword, and made such a blow at his adversary, that the point cut right through his shield. With a quick turn of the shield, Erling broke the sword short off at the hilt. Skarpedin seized his bill and thrust so fiercely that it also went through the shield and stuck fast. Erling forced the lower end or point of his shield down into the earth, and so held it fast, dropped his axe, drew his sword, and made it flash so quick round his head that no one could see the blade. It fell upon Skarpedin’s neck and gave him a grievous wound, cutting right through his armour and deep into his shoulder blade.

A great cry arose at this. The Danes made a rush towards their chief, and succeeded in dragging him out of the fight. They put him on his shield and bore him off to his ship, which was launched immediately. This was the turning-point in the day. Everywhere the Danes fled to their ships pursued by the victors. Some managed to launch their vessels, others were not so fortunate, and many fell fighting, while a few were taken prisoners.

Foreseeing that this would be the result, Haldor and Erling called off their men, hastened on board their ships, and gave chase, while the rest of the force looked after the prisoners and the booty, and dressed their own and their comrades’ wounds.

“A bloody day this,” said Ulf to Guttorm, as the latter came up, wiping the blade of his sword.

“I have seen worse,” observed the old warrior, carefully returning his weapon to its scabbard.

“The Danes will long remember it,” observed Glumm. “The ravens will have a good feast to-night.”

“And Odin’s halls a few more tenants,” said Guttorm:

“The Danes came here all filled with greed,
And left their flesh the crows to feed.

“But what is to be done with these?” he added, pointing to the prisoners, about twenty of whom were seated on a log with their feet tied together by a long rope, while their hands were loose.

“Kill them, I suppose,” said Ulf.

There were thirty men seated there, and although they heard the words, they did not show by a single glance that they feared to meet their doom.

Just then Swart of the Springs came up. He had a great axe in his hands, and was very furious.

“Thou hast killed and burned my wife, children, and homestede,” he said fiercely, addressing the prisoner who sat at the end of the log, “but thou shalt never return to Denmark to tell it.”

He cut at him with the axe as he spoke, and the man fell dead. One after another Swart killed them. There was one who looked up and said—

“I will stick this fish bone that I have in my hand into the earth, if it be so that I know anything after my head is cut off.”

His head was immediately cut off, but the fish bone fell from his hand.

Beside him there sat a very handsome young man with long hair, who twisted his hair over his head, stretched out his neck, and said, “Don’t make my hair bloody.”

A man took the hair in his hands and held it fast. Then Swart hewed with his axe, but the Dane twitched his head back so strongly, that he who was holding his hair fell forward; the axe cut off both his hands, and stuck fast in the earth.

“Who is that handsome man?” asked Ulf.

The man replied with look of scorn, “I am Einar, the son of King Thorkel of Denmark; and know thou for a certainty that many shall fall to avenge my death.”

Ulf said, “Art thou certainly Thorkel’s son? Wilt thou now take thy life and peace?”

“That depends,” replied the Dane, “upon who it is that offers it.”

“He offers who has the power to give it—Ulf of Romsdal.”

“I will take it,” says he, “from Ulf’s hands.”

Upon that the rope was loosed from his feet, but Swart, whose vengeance was still unsatisfied, exclaimed—

“Although thou shouldst give all these men life and peace, King Ulf, yet will I not suffer Einar to depart from this place with life.”

So saying he ran at him with uplifted axe, but one of the viking prisoners threw himself before Swart’s feet, so that he tumbled over him, and the axe fell at the feet of a viking named Gills. Gills caught the axe and gave Swart his death-wound.

Then said Ulf, “Gills, wilt thou accept life?”

“That will I,” said he, “if thou wilt give it to all of us.”

“Loose them from the rope,” said Ulf.

This was done, and the men were set free.

Eighteen of the Danish vikings were killed, and twelve got their lives upon that occasion.

Chapter Eight.

Tells of Discussions and Exciting Deeds at Ulfstede.

While the fight at the Springs which we have just described was going on, Christian the hermit sat in the hall at Ulfstede conversing with Hilda and Dame Astrid, and some of the other women. All the fighting men of the place had been taken away—only one or two old men and Alric were left behind—for Ulf, in his impetuosity, had forgotten to leave a guard at home.

“I hope it will fare well with our men at the Springs,” said Hilda, looking up with an anxious expression from the mantle with which her nimble fingers were busy.

“I hope so too,” said Christian, “though I would rather that there had been no occasion to fight.”

“No occasion to fight!” exclaimed Alric, who was dressing the feathers on an arrow which he had made to replace the one he lost in shooting at the Dane,—and the losing of which, by the way, he was particularly careful to bring to remembrance as often as opportunity offered—sometimes whether opportunity offered or not. “No occasion to fight! What would be the use of weapons if there were no fighting! Where should we get our plunder if there were no fighting, and our slaves? why, what would Northmen find to do if there were no fighting?”

The hermit almost laughed at the impetuosity of the boy as he replied—

“It would take a wiser head than mine, lad, to answer all these questions, more particularly to answer them to thy satisfaction. Notwithstanding, it remains true that peace is better than war.”

“That may be so,” said Dame Astrid; “but it seems to me that war is necessary, and what is necessary must be right.”

“I agree with that,” said Ada, with a toss of her pretty head—for it would seem that that method of expressing contempt for an adversary’s opinion was known to womankind at least a thousand years ago, if not longer. “But thou dost not fight, Christian: what has war done to thee that thou shouldst object to it so?”

“What has war done for me?” exclaimed the old man, springing up with sudden excitement, and clasping his lean hands tight together; “has it not done all that it could do? Woman, it has robbed me of all that makes life sweet, and left me only what I did not want. It has robbed me of wife and children, and left a burdened life. Yet no—I sin in speaking thus. Life was left because there was something worth living for; something still to be done: the truth of God to be proclaimed; the good of man to be compassed. But sometimes I forget this when the past flashes upon me, and I forget that it is my duty as well as my joy to say, ‘The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.’”

The old man sat down again, and leaned his brow on his hand. The women, although sympathetic, were puzzled by some of his remarks, and therefore sat in silence for a little, but presently the volatile Ada looked up and said—

“What thinkest thou, Hilda, in regard to war?”

“I know not what to think,” replied Hilda.

“Nay, then, thy spirit must be flying from thee, for thou wert not wont to be without an opinion on most things. Why, even Erling’s sister, Ingeborg, has made up her mind about war I doubt not, though she is too modest to express it.”

Now this was a sly hit at Ingeborg, who was sitting by, for she was well known to have a shrewish temper, and to be self-willed and opinionated, in so much that most men kept out of her way. She was very unlike Erling, or her father and mother, or her little sisters, in this respect.

“I can express my opinion well enough when I have a mind,” said Ingeborg sharply; “and as to war, it stands to reason that a Sea-king’s daughter must approve of a Sea-king’s business. Why, the beautiful cloths, and gold and jewels, that are so plentiful in the dale, would never have delighted our eyes if our men had not gone on viking cruise, and fallen in with those rich traders from the far south lands. Besides, war makes our men brisk and handsome.”

“Aye,” exclaimed Alric, laughing, “especially when they get their noses cut off and their cheeks gashed!”

“Sometimes it takes them from us altogether,” observed a poor woman of the household, the widow of a man who had been slain on a viking cruise, after having had his eyes put out, and being otherwise cruelly treated.

“That is the other side of the question,” said Astrid. “Of course everything has two sides. We cannot change the plans of the gods. Sunshine and rain, heat and cold, come as they are sent. We must accept them as they are sent.”

“That is true,” said Christian, “and thou sayest wisely that we must accept things as they are sent; but can it be said that war is sent to us when we rush into it of our own accord? Defensive warfare, truly, is right—else would this world be left in the sole possession of the wicked; but aggressive warfare is not right. To go on viking cruise and take by force that which is not our own is sinful. There is a good way to prove the truth of these things. Let me ask the question, Astrid,—How would thy husband like to have thee and all his property taken from him, and Ulfstede burned about his ears?”

“Methinks he would like it ill.”

“Then why should he do that to others which he would not like done to himself?”

“These are strange words,” said Astrid in surprise; “I know not that I have ever heard the like before.”

“Truly no,” said Christian, “because the Word of God has not yet been sounded in the dale. Thou saidst just now that we cannot change the plans of the gods; that would be true if ye had said ‘the plans of God,’ for there is but one God, and His ways are unchangeable. But what if God had revealed some of His plans to man, and told him that this revelation was sufficient to guide him in his walk through this life, and to prepare him for the next?”

“Then would I think it man’s wisdom to follow that guide carefully,” replied Astrid.

“Such plans do exist, such a revelation has been made,” said the hermit, “and the name that stands on the forefront of it is Jesus Christ.”

As he spoke the hermit drew from his bosom a scroll of parchment, which he unrolled slowly. This, he said, was a copy, made by himself, of part of the Gospel. He had meant, he said, to have copied the whole of it, but war had put an end to his labours at the same time that it deprived him of his earthly joys, and drove him from his native land to be a wanderer on the earth.

“But if,” he continued, “the Lord permits me to preach His gospel of truth and love and peace in Norway, I shall count the sufferings of this present time as nothing compared with the glory yet to be revealed.”

“Christian,” said Astrid, who appeared to have been struck by some reminiscence, “methinks I have heard Ulf talk of a religion which the men of the south profess. He saw something of it when he went on viking cruise to the great fiord that runs far into the land, (the Mediterranean) and if my memory is faithful he said that they called themselves by a name that sounds marvellously like thine own.”

“I suppose Ulf must have met with Christians, after whom I call myself, seeing that my own name is of consequence to no one,” said the hermit. “What said he about them?”

“That they were a bad set,” replied Astrid,—“men who professed love to their fellows, but were guilty of great cruelty to all who did not believe their faith.”

“All who call themselves Christians deserve not the name, Astrid; some are hypocrites and deceivers, others are foolish and easily deceived.”

“They all make the same profession, I am told,” said Dame Astrid.

“The men of Norway are warriors,” returned the hermit, “and all profess courage,—nay, when they stand in the ranks and go forth to war, they all show the same stern face and front, so that one could not know but that all were brave; yet are they not all courageous, as thou knowest full well. Some, it may be very few, but some are cowards at heart, and it only requires the test of the fight to prove them. So is it with professing Christians. I would gladly tell the story of Jesus if ye will hear me, Dame Astrid.”

The matron’s curiosity was excited, so she expressed her willingness to listen; and the hermit, reading passages from his manuscript copy of the New Testament, and commenting thereon, unfolded the “old old story” of God’s wonderful love to man in Jesus Christ.

While he was yet in the midst of his discourse the door of the hall was burst violently open, and one of the serving-girls, rushing in, exclaimed that the Danes were approaching from the fiord!

The Danes referred to composed a small party who had been sent off in a cutter by Skarpedin Redbeard to survey the coast beyond Horlingdal fiord, as he had intended, after herrying that district, to plunder still farther north. This party in returning had witnessed, unseen, the departure of the fleet of Northmen. Thinking it probable that the place might have been left with few protectors, they waited until they deemed it safe to send out scouts, and, on their report being favourable, they landed to make an attack on the nearest village or farm.

On hearing the news all was uproar in Ulfstede. The women rushed about in a distracted state, imploring the few helpless old men about the place to arm and defend them. To do these veteran warriors justice they did their best. They put the armour that was brought to them on their palsied limbs, but shook their heads sadly, for they felt that although they might die in defence of the household, they could not save it.

Meanwhile Christian and Alric proved themselves equal to the occasion. The former, although advanced in years, retained much of his strength and energy; and the latter, still inflated with the remembrance of the fact that he had actually drawn blood from a full-grown bearded Dane, and deeply impressed with the idea that he was the only able-bodied warrior in Ulfstede at this crisis, resolved to seize the opportunity and prove to the whole world that his boasting was at all events not “empty!”

“The first thing to be done is to bar the doors,” he cried, starting up on hearing the serving-girl’s report. “Thou knowest how to do it, Christian; run to the south door, I will bar the north.”

The hermit smiled at the lad’s energy, but he was too well aware of the importance of speed to waste time in talking. He dropped his outer garment and ran to the south door, which was very solid. Closing it, and fastening the ponderous wooden bar which stretched diagonally across it, he turned and ran to the chamber in which the weapons were kept. On the way he was arrested by a cry from Alric—

“Here! here, quick, Christian, else we are lost!”

The hermit sprang to the north door with the agility of a youth. He was just in time. Poor Alric, despite the strength of his bold heart and will, had not strength of muscle enough to close the door, which had somehow got jammed. Through the open doorway Christian could see a band of Danish vikings running towards the house at full speed. He flung the door forward with a crash, and drew the bar across just as the vikings ran against it.

“Open, open without delay!” cried a voice outside, “else will we tear out the heart of every man and child under this roof.”

“We will not open; we will defend ourselves to the last; our trust is in God,” replied Christian.

“And as to tearing out our hearts,” cried Alric, feeling emboldened now that the stout door stood between him and his foes, “if ye do not make off as fast as ye came, we will punch out your eyes and roast your livers.”

The reply to this was a shower of blows on the door, so heavy that the whole building shook beneath them, and Alric almost wished that his boastful threat had been left unsaid. He recollected at that moment, however, that there was a hole under the eaves of the roof just above the door. It had been constructed for the purpose of preventing attacks of this kind. The boy seized his bow and arrows and dashed up the ladder that led to the loft above the hall. On it he found one of the old retainers of the stede struggling up with a weighty iron pot, from which issued clouds of steam.

“Let me pass, old Ivor; what hast thou there?”

“Boiling water to warm them,” gasped Ivor, “I knew we should want it ere long. Finn is gone to the loft above the south door with another pot.”

Alric did not wait to hear the end of this answer, but pushing past the old man, hastened to the trap-door under the eaves and opened it. He found, however, that he could not use his bow in the constrained position necessary to enable him to shoot through the hole. In desperation he seized a barrel that chanced to be at hand, and overturned its contents on the heads of the foe. It happened to contain rye-flour, and the result was that two of the assailants were nearly blinded, while two others who stood beside them burst into a loud laugh, and, seizing the battle-axes which the others had been using, continued their efforts to drive in the door. By this time old Ivor had joined Alric. He set down the pot of boiling water by the side of the hole, and at once emptied its contents on the heads of the vikings, who uttered a terrific yell and leaped backward as the scalding water flowed over their heads and shoulders. A similar cry from the other door of the house told that the defence there had been equally successful. Almost at the same moment Alric discovered a small slit in the roof through which he could observe the enemy. He quickly sent through it an arrow, which fixed itself in the left shoulder of one of the men. This had the effect of inducing the attacking party to draw off for the purpose of consultation.

The breathing-time thus afforded to the assailed was used in strengthening their defences and holding a hurried council of war. Piling several heavy pieces of furniture against the doors, and directing the women to make additions to these, Christian drew Alric into the hall, where the ancient retainers were already assembled.

“It will cost them a long time and much labour to drive in the doors, defended as they are,” said the hermit.

“They will not waste time nor labour upon them,” said Ivor, shaking his hoary head. “What think ye, Finn?”

The women, who had crowded round the men, looked anxiously at Finn, who was a man of immense bulk, and had been noted for strength in his younger days, but who was now bent almost double with age. “Fire will do the work quicker than the battle-axe,” answered Finn, with grim smile, which did not improve the expression of a countenance already disfigured by the scars of a hundred fights, and by the absence of an eye—long ago gouged out and left to feed the ravens of a foreign shore! “If this had only come to pass a dozen years ago,” he added, while a gleam of light illumined the sound eye, “I might have gone off to Valhalla with a straight hack and some credit. But mayhap a good onset will straighten it yet, who knows?—and I do feel as if I had strength left to send at least one foe out of the world before me.”

Ivor the Old nodded. “Yes,” he said; “I think they will burn us out.”

“I had already feared this,” said Christian, with a look of perplexity. “What wouldst thou recommend should be done, Ivor?”

“Nothing more can be done than to kill as many as possible before we die.”

“I pray the Lord to help us in our extremity,” said Christian; “but I believe it to be His will to help those who are willing to help themselves, depending upon Him for strength, courage, and victory. It may be that Ulf and his men will soon return from the Springs, so that if we could only hold out for a short time all might be well. Have ye nothing to suggest?”

“As to Ulf and the men returning from the Springs,” said Finn, “there is small chance of that before morning. With regard to holding out, I know of nothing that will cause fire to burn slow once it is well kindled. An hour hence and Ulfstede will be in ashes, as that sound surely tells.”

He referred to a crashing blow which occurred just then at the north door. Nearly all present knew full well that it was the first bundle of a pile of faggots with which the assailants meant to set the house on fire.

“Had this arm retained but a little of the strength it once knew,” continued Finn bitterly, as he stretched out the huge but withered limb, “things had not come to this pass so quickly. I remember the day, now forty years ago, when on the roof of this very house I stood alone with my bow and kept thirty men at bay for two full hours. But I could not now draw an arrow of Alric’s little bow to its head, to save the lives of all present.”

“But I can do it,” cried Alric, starting forward suddenly; “and if thou wilt show me the window in the roof I will—”

“Brave boy,” said old Ivor, with a kindly smile, as he laid his hand on Alric’s head, “thy heart is large, and it is sad that one so full of promise should come to such an end; but it needs not that ye should fall before thy time. These shafts may do against the crows, but they would avail nothing against men in mail.”

“Is there not a warrior’s bow in the house?” asked Christian quickly.

“There is,” replied Ivor, “but who will use it?”

“I will.”

“Thou?” exclaimed Ivor, with a slight touch of contempt in his tone.

“Hold thy peace, Ivor,” said Hilda quickly. “This man has saved my life once, as thou knowest, and well assured am I that what he undertakes to do he will accomplish.”

“Now thanks to thee, Hilda, for that,” said the hermit heartily; “not that I boast of being sure to accomplish what I undertake, yet I never offer to attempt what I have not some reasonable hope of being able to do. But it is not strange that this old warrior should doubt of the courage or capacity of one who preaches the gospel of peace. Nevertheless, when I was a youth I fought in the army of the great Thorfin, and was somewhat expert in the use of the bow. It is possible that some of my ancient skill may remain, and I am willing to use it in a good cause. I pray thee, therefore, let us not waste more time in useless talk, but fetch me a bow and quiver, and show me the window in the roof.”

Ivor went at once to the place where the armour was kept, and brought out the desired weapons, which he placed in the hands of the hermit, and watched his mode of handling them with some curiosity. Christian, unconscious of the look, strung the bow and examined one of the arrows with the air of a man who was thoroughly accustomed to such weapons. Ivor regarded him with increased respect as he conducted him to the loft, and opened the window.

The hermit at once stepped out, and was instantly observed by the Danes, who of course seized the opportunity and let fly several arrows at him, which grazed him or stuck quivering in the roof close to the spot where he stood. He was not slow to reply. One of the vikings, who was approaching the house at the moment with a bundle of faggots on his back, received a shaft in his shoulder, which caused him to drop his bundle and fly to the woods, where he took shelter behind a tree. Almost before that shaft had reached its mark another was on the string, and, in another instant, transfixed the biceps muscle of the right arm of one of the vikings who was preparing to discharge an arrow. He also sought shelter behind a tree, and called to a comrade to come and assist him to extract the shaft.

“Mine ancient skill,” said the hermit in an undertone, as if the remark were made half to himself and half to Ivor, whose head appeared at the window, and whose old countenance was wrinkled with a grin of delight at this unexpected display of prowess; “mine ancient skill, it would seem, has not deserted me, for which I am thankful, for it is an awful thing, Ivor, more awful than thou thinkest, to send a human being into eternity unforgiven. I am glad, therefore, to be able thus to render our assailants unfit for war without taking away their lives—ha! that was better aimed than usual,” he added, as an arrow passed through his jerkin, and stuck deep into the roof. “The man shoots well, he would soon end the fight if I did not—stop—that.”

At the second-last word the hermit bent his bow; at the last, which was uttered with emphasis, he let the arrow fly, and sent it through the left hand of his adversary, who instantly dropped his bow. At the same moment it seemed as though the whole band of vikings had become suddenly convinced that they stood exposed to the shafts of a man who could use them with unerring certainty, for they turned with one consent and fled into the woods—each man seeking shelter behind the nearest tree.

Here they called to one another to stand forth and shoot at the hermit.

“Go thou, Arne,” cried the leader; “thine aim is true. Surely one old man is not to keep us all at bay. If my left hand were unscathed I would not trouble thee to do it, thou knowest.”

“I have no desire to get an arrow in mine eye,” cried Arne; “see, I did but show the tip of my right elbow just now, and the skin of it is cut up as though the crows had pecked it.”

In the excess of his wrath Arne extended his clenched fist and shook it at the hermit, who instantly transfixed it with an arrow, causing the foolish man to howl with pain and passion.

“I have always held and acted on the opinion,” said Christian to Ivor, who was now joined by his comrade Finn, “that whatever is worth doing at all, is worth doing well. Thou seest,” he continued, wiping his brow with the sleeve of his coat, “it is only by being expert in the use of this weapon that I have succeeded in driving bark the Danes without the loss of life. There is indeed a passage in the Book of God (which I hope to be spared to tell thee more about in time to come), where this principle of thoroughness in all things is implied, if not absolutely taught—namely, ‘Whatever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.’”

“A just maxim,” said Finn, shading his one eye with his hands and gazing earnestly into the woods, “and if acted upon, makes a man fit for every duty that falls upon him; but it seems to me that while we are talking here, there is some movement going on. See, Christian (since that is thy name), they are retiring in haste, and exposing themselves. Now, I pray thee, as thine eye is so sure, do drop a shaft on the nape of yonder fellow’s neck, that we may have something to show of this night’s work.”

“I told thee, Finn, that my desire is to avoid taking life.”

“Humph,” said Finn testily, “whatever thy desire may be matters little now, for he is beyond range. Hark! That shout accounts for the flight of the Danes. Ulf must have returned.”

As he spoke, a loud cry, as if of men in conflict, arose from the fiord. Immediately after, the vikings who had not already taken to flight left their places of shelter and dashed into the underwood. The hermit let them go without moving a hand; but Alric, who was actuated by no merciful principles, suddenly opened the north door, sprang out, and let fly an arrow with so true an aim that it struck one of the Danes between the shoulders. Fortunately for him, the Dane had, in accordance with the usual custom of the time, hung his shield on his back when he took to flight, so that the shaft rebounded from it and fell harmless to the ground.

By this time the hermit had descended from the roof. Running out he seized Alric, and, dragging him into the house, reclosed the door.

“Ye know not, foolish boy, whether or not this is Ulf whom we hear.”

As he spoke, the tramp of approaching footsteps and the voices of excited men were heard outside. The door flew open, and Ulf, Erling, and Haldor, with a number of the house-carles, strode into the hall and flung down their arms.

“Not much too soon, it would seem,” said Ulf, with a look of stern joy.

“Thou wouldst have been altogether too late, Ulf,” said Astrid, “had not Christian been here to save us.”

“How so?” exclaimed Ulf, turning with an enquiring look to the hermit; “hast turned warrior after all thy preaching of peace? But thou art pale. Ho! fetch a horn of ale here; fighting has disagreed with thy stomach, old man.”

“I think,” said Christian, pressing his hand to his side, “that one of these arrows must have—”

He paused suddenly, and would have fallen to the ground had not Erling caught him. Letting him gently down at full length, our hero raised his head on his knee, while Hilda came forward with a horn of ale. As she kneeled by the old man’s side she glanced anxiously at her lover’s face, which was covered with blood and dust, and presented anything but an attractive appearance.

“Hast thou been wounded?” whispered Hilda.

“No, not wounded,” muttered Erling, “but—”

“Not wounded!” exclaimed Ulf, who overheard the words, but misunderstood their application, “not wounded! Why, Erling, where have thy wits gone? The man is wellnigh dead from loss of blood. See, his jerkin is soaking. Bring hither bandages; come, let me see the wound. If the old man has indeed saved Ulfstede this day, eternal disgrace would be our due did we let his life slip out under our roof-tree for want of proper care. And hark’ee; get ready all the dressings thou hast, for wounded men enough will be here ere long, and let the boards be spread with the best of meat and ale, for we have gone through hard work to-day, and there is harder yet in store for us, I trow.”

Thus admonished, the women went to make preparation for the reception of the wounded, and the entertainment of those who had been more fortunate in the recent conflict. Meanwhile the hermit was conveyed to Ulf’s own bed, and his wound, which proved to be less serious than had been feared, was carefully dressed by Hilda, to whom Erling, in the most attentive and disinterested manner, acted the part of assistant-surgeon.

Chapter Nine.

Shows how the Ancient Sea-Kings transacted National Business.

Scant was the time allowed the men of Horlingdal for refreshment and rest after the battle of the Springs, for the assembling of Thingsmen armed to the teeth, as well as the news that King Harald threatened a descent on them, rendered it necessary that a District Thing or Council should be held without delay.

Accordingly, after brief repose, Haldor the Fierce, who had returned with Erling to his own house up the dale, arose and ordered the horn to be sounded for a Thing.

Several hundreds of men had by that time assembled, and when they all came together they formed an imposing band of warriors, whom any wise king would have deemed it advisable to hold converse with, if possible, on friendly terms.

When the Thing was seated Haldor rose, and, amid profound silence, said:

“Men of Horlingdal, King Harald Haarfager has sent round the message-token for a Thing to be held at the Springs. The token sent was one of peace. The token of war was sent round instead, as ye know. Whether this was wise or not does not much concern us now, as ye have seen with your own eyes that there was good fortune in the change; for we knew not, when the token was forwarded, of the urgent need that should arise at the Springs for our weapons. But, now that the Danes have been sent home—excepting that goodly number who have gone to Valhalla’s halls to keep company with Odin and departed warriors—it seems to me that we should meet the King in the manner which he desires until he shall give us occasion to assume arms in defence of our laws. And I would here remind you that Harald is our rightful King, udal-born to the Kingdom of Norway, his title having been stated and proved at all the District Things, beginning with the Ore Thing of Drontheim, and having been approved by all the people of Norway. I therefore counsel pacific measures, and that we should go to the Springs unarmed.”

When Haldor sat down there was a slight murmur of assent, but most of those present remained silent, wishing to hear more.

Then up started Ulf, and spoke with great heat.

“I agree not with Haldor,” he said sternly. “Who does not know that Harald is rightful King of Norway; that he is descended in a direct line from the godars who came over from the east with Odin, and has been fairly elected King of Norway? But who does not know also, that our laws are above our King, that Harald is at this time trampling on these laws, and is everywhere setting at defiance the small kings, who are as truly udal-born to their rights and titles as himself?”

At this point Ulf’s indignation became so great that he found he could not talk connectedly, so he concluded by counselling that they should go to the Springs fully armed, and ready to brave the worst. There was a loud shout of approval, and then Erling started up. His manner and tone were subdued, but his face was flushed; and men could see, as he went on, that he was keeping down his wrath and his energy.

“I like it ill,” he said, “to disagree on this point with my father; but Ulf is right. We all know that Harald is King of Norway by law, and we do not meet here to dispute his title; but we also know that kings are not gods. Men create a law and place it over their own heads, so that the lawmakers as well as those for whom it is made must bow before it; but when it is found that the law works unfairly, the lawmaker may repeal it, and cast it aside as useless or unworthy. So kings were created for the sole purpose of guiding nations and administering laws, in order that national welfare might be advanced. The moment they cease to act their part, that moment they cease to be worthy kings, and become useless. But if, in addition to this, they dare to ignore and break the laws of the land, then do they become criminal; they deserve not only to be cast aside, but punished. If, in defence of our rights, we find it necessary to dethrone the King, we cannot be charged with disloyalty, because the King has already dethroned himself!”

Erling paused a moment at this point, and a murmur of approval ran through the circle of his auditors.

“When Harald Haarfager’s father,” he resumed, “Halfdan the Black, ruled over Norway, he made laws which were approved by the people. He obeyed them himself, and obliged others to observe them; and, that violence should not come in the place of the laws, he himself fixed the number of criminal acts in law, and the compensations, mulcts, or penalties, for each case, according to everyone’s birth and dignity, from the King downwards; so that when disputes were settled at the Things the utmost fair play prevailed—death for death, wound for wound; or, if the parties chose, matters could be adjusted by payments in money—each injury being valued at a fixed scale; or matters might be settled and put right by single combat. All this, ye know full well, Halfdan the Black compassed and settled in a legal manner, and the good that has flowed from his wise and legal measures (for I hold that a king is not entitled to pass even wise laws illegally) has been apparent to us ever since. But now all this is to be overturned—with or without the consent of the Things—because a foolish woman, forsooth, has the power to stir up the vanity of a foolish king! Shall this be so? Is our manhood to be thus riven from us, and shall we stand aloof and see it done, or, worse still, be consenting unto it? Let death be our portion first! It has been rumoured that the people of southern lands have done this—that they have sold themselves to their kings, so that one man’s voice is law, and paid troops of military slaves are kept up in order that this one man may have his full swing, while his favourites and his soldier-slaves bask in his sunshine and fatten on the people of the land! It is impossible for us of Norway to understand the feelings or ideas of the men who have thus sold themselves—for we have never known such tyranny—having, as the scalds tell us, enjoyed our privileges, held our Things, and governed ourselves by means of the collective wisdom of the people ever since our forefathers came from the East; but I warn ye that if this man, Harald Haarfager, is allowed to have his will, our institutions shall be swept away, our privileges will depart, our rights will be crushed, and the time will come when it shall be said of Norsemen that they have utterly forgotten that they once were free! Again I ask, shall we tamely stand aside and suffer this to be? Shall our children ever have it in their power to say, ‘There was a time when our mean-spirited forefathers might have easily stopped the leak that caused the flood by which we are now borne irresistibly downward?’ I repeat, let us rather perish! Let us go armed to the Springs and tell the King that he—equally with ourselves—is subject to the laws of the land!”

Erling delivered the last sentence in a voice of thunder, and with a fierce wave of the hand, that drew forth shouts of enthusiastic applause.

Instantly Glumm started up, forgetful, in the heat of the moment, of the jealousy that had so recently sprung up between him and his friend.

“I am not a speaker,” he shouted gruffly, “but poor is the man who cannot back up and egg on his friend. Erling speaks the truth; and all I have to suggest is that he should be sent by us to tell all this to King Harald Haarfager’s face!”

Glumm sat down with the prompt decision of a man who has thoroughly delivered himself of all that he intends to say; and many in the assembly testified their approval of his sentiments.

At this point Ivor the Old arose and gave it as his opinion that the sooner the King should be brought off his high horse the better; whereupon Finn the One-eyed suggested, with a laugh, that the old hermit should be sent with his bow and arrow to teach him due submission to the laws. Then there was a good deal of confused, and not a little passionate discussion, which waxed louder and more vehement until Guttorm Stoutheart stood up, and, although not a dalesman, requested the attention of the assembly for a few minutes.

“It is obvious,” he said in the hearty tones of a man who knows that he is sure of carrying a large portion of his audience along with him—“it is obvious that you are all pretty much of one mind as to the principle on which we should act at this time; and my good friend Haldor the Fierce (who seems of late to have changed his nature, and should, methinks, in future, be styled Haldor the Mild) is evidently on the losing side. The only thing that concerns us, it seems to me, is the manner in which we shall convey our opinion to the King—how we shall best, as the scald says:—

“‘Whisper in the King’s unwilling ear
That which is wholesome but unsweet to hear.’

“Now, to the quick-witted among you various methods will doubtless have already been suggested; and I am perchance only echoing the sentiments of many here, when I say that it would be worthy of the men of Horlingdal that they should fight the King at once, and put a stop to the burnings, hangings, torturings, jarl-makings, and subduings of which he has been so guilty of late, and which I confess is so unlike his free, generous, manly character, that I have found it hard to believe the reports which have reached my ears, and which, after all, can only be accounted for by the fact that he is at present led by the nose by that worst of all creatures, a proud imperious girl, who has the passions of a warrior and the brains of a bairn! Another method, which would signify at least our contempt for Harald’s principles, would be the sending of a thrall to him with a reaping-hook, and a request that he would cut off his own head and give it to us in token that, having ceased to be a king, he is resolved no longer to continue to be a dishonoured man! And that reminds me of one of Ulf’s thralls named Kettle Flatnose, who could assist Harald nobly in the work of beheading himself, for last night, when he and I fought side by side against the Danes, he used a hook of his own making, with such effect, that I was fain to pause and laugh, while myself in the very act of splitting an iron headpiece. But perchance that is not a suitable method of compassing our ends, besides it would cost the thrall his life, and I should be sorry to aid in bringing about the death of Kettle Flatnose, whose island is a happy one if it counts many such clear-headed and able-bodied warriors.

“But another plan was proposed by Glumm the Gruff, which seemed to me to have the approval of many present, and assuredly it has mine, that we should send King Erling at once to Harald, to tell him our opinions to his face, to sound him as to his intentions, and to bring back the news as fast as possible, so that we may go armed or unarmed to the Springs, as prudence may direct. Moreover, as it would be unfair to send a man alone on such a dangerous errand, I would suggest that he should have a comrade to keep him company and share his fortunes, and that for this end none better could be found than Glumm the Gruff himself.”

This speech settled the mind of the meeting. After a little more talk it was finally arranged that Erling and Glumm should go at once to meet King Harald, who could not yet, it was thought, have arrived at the Springs, and endeavour to find out his temper of mind in regard to the men of Horlingdal. After that the Thing broke up, and the members dispersed to partake of “midag-mad”, or dinner, in the dwellings of their various friends.

Chapter Ten.

Proves that the Best of Friends may quarrel about nothing, and that War has two Aspects.

“Now, Erling,” said Glumm, with a face so cheerful, that had the expression been habitual, he never would have been styled the Gruff, “I will go home with thee and wait until thou art busked, after which we will go together to my house and have a bite and a horn of mead before setting out on this expedition. I thank the Stoutheart for suggesting it, for the business likes me well.”

“Thou wert ever prone to court danger, Glumm,” said Erling with a laugh, as they hurried towards Haldorstede, “and methinks thou art going to be blessed with a full share of it just now, for this Harald Haarfager is not a man to be trifled with. Although thou and I could hold our own against some odds, we shall find the odds too much for us in the King’s camp, should he set his face against us. However, the cause is a good one, and to say truth, I am not sorry that they had the goodness to pitch on thee and me to carry out the plan.”

Thus conversing they arrived at Ulfstede, where Herfrida met them at the door, and was soon informed of their mission. She immediately went to an inner closet, where the best garments and arms were kept, and brought forth Erling’s finest suit of armour, in order that he might appear with suitable dignity at court.

She made him change his ordinary shoes for a pair made of tanned leather, on which he bound a pair of silver spurs, which had been taken from a cavalier of southern lands in one of Haldor’s viking cruises. She brought, and assisted him to put on, a new suit of mail, every ring of which had been brightly polished by the busy hands of Ingeborg, who was unusually fond of meddling with everything that pertained to the art of war; also a new sword-belt of yellow leather, ornamented with gold studs. On his head she placed a gilt helmet with his favourite crest, a pair of hawk’s wings expanded upwards, and a curtain of leather covered with gilt-steel rings to defend the neck. Over his shoulders she flung a short scarlet cloak, which was fastened at the throat by a large silver brooch, similar to the circular brooches which are still to be found in the possession of the rich bonders of Norway. Then she surveyed her stalwart son from head to foot, and said that he would stand comparison with any king in the land, small or great.

At this Erling laughed, and asked for his sword.

“Which one, my son?”

“The short one, mother. I had indeed thought of taking my good old axe with me, but that would not look well in a man bent on a mission of peace. Would it, Glumm? And if I should have to fight, why, my short sword is not a light one, and by putting to a little more force I can make it bite deep enough. So now, Glumm, I am ready for the road. Farewell, mother.”

The young men went out and hastened down the valley to Glummstede, near Horlingend.

Now it chanced that Hilda and her foster-sister Ada had resolved, about that time of the day, to walk up the dale together, and as there was only one road on that side of the river, of necessity they were met by their lovers; and it so fell out that the meeting took place in a picturesque part of the dale, where the road passed between two high precipitous cliffs.

The instant that Ada’s eyes fell on Glumm her active brain conceived the idea of treating him to a disappointment, so she said hurriedly to her friend:

“Hilda, wilt thou manage to lead Glumm aside and keep talking to him for a short time, while I speak with Erling? I want to ask him something about that sword-belt which I am making for Glumm, and which I intend to send him as the gift of an enemy.”

“I will do as ye desire,” replied Hilda, with a feeling of disappointment; “but with what truth canst thou send it, Ada, as an enemy’s gift?”

“Simple Hilda!” said the other, with a laugh, “am I not an enemy to his peace of mind? But hush! they will overhear us.”

It chanced that Hilda was on the same side of the road with Erling, and Ada on that with Glumm, and both youths observed this fact with secret satisfaction as they approached and wished the maids “good day”; but just as they were about to shake hands Ada crossed in front of her companion, and taking Erling’s outstretched hand said:

“Erling, I am glad to meet thee, because I have a knotty point which I wish thine aid to disentangle. I will turn and walk with thee a short way, because I know thy business is pressing. It is always so with men, is it not?”

“I know not,” answered Erling, smiling at the girl’s arch look, despite his surprise and chagrin at the unexpected turn affairs had taken, for he had noted the readiness with which Hilda had turned towards Glumm, and almost, as he imagined, led him aside purposely! “But it seems to me, Ada, that, however pressing a man’s business may be, woman has the power to delay it.”

“Nay, then, if thine is indeed so pressing just now,” said Ada, with a toss of the head (which Glumm, who walked behind with Hilda, took particular note of), “I will not presume to—”

“Now, Ada,” said Erling, with a light laugh, “thou knowest that it is merely waste of time to affect indignation. I know thee too well to be deceived. Come, what is it that ye would consult me about? not the forging of a battle-axe or spear-head, I warrant me.”

“Nay, but a portion of armour scarce less important, though not so deadly. What say you to a sword-belt?”

“Well, I am somewhat skilled in such gear.”

“I am ornamenting one for a friend of thine, Erling, but I will not tell his name unless I have thy promise not to mention to him anything about our conversation.”

“I promise,” said Erling, with an amused glance.

“It is for Glumm.”

“For Glumm!” repeated Erling in surprise; “does Glumm then know—”

“Know what?” asked Ada, as Erling stopped abruptly.

“Does he know that thou art making this belt for him?”

“Know it? why, how could it be a secret if he knew it?”

“Ah, true, I—well?”

“Besides,” continued Ada, “I am not making it; I said I was going to ornament it. Now it is with reference to that I would consult thee.”

Here Ada became so deeply absorbed in the mysteries of ornamental armour that she constrained Erling at least to appear interested, although, poor man, his heart was behind him, and he had much difficulty in resisting the desire to turn round when he heard Hilda’s voice—which, by the way, was heard pretty constantly, for Glumm was so uncommonly gruff and monosyllabic in his replies that she had most of the talking to herself.

This unpleasant state of things might have lasted a considerable time, had not the party reached the path which diverged to the left, and, crossing the river over a narrow bridge composed of two tall trees thrown across, led to Glummstede. Here Erling stopped suddenly, and wheeling round, said:

“I regret that we cannot go farther down the dale to-day, as Glumm and I must fare with all speed to the Springs to meet King Harald.”

“I trust thine errand is one of peace?” said Hilda in a slightly anxious tone.

“To judge by their looks,” said Ada, glancing expressively at Glumm, “I should say that their intentions were warlike!”

“Despite our looks,” replied Erling, with a laugh, “our business with the King is of a peaceful nature, and as it is pressing, ye will excuse us if—”

“Oh! it is pressing, after all,” cried Ada; “come, sister, let us not delay them.”

So saying, she hurried away with her friend, and the two youths strode on to Glummstede in a very unenviable frame of mind.

Having refreshed themselves with several cuts of fresh salmon—drawn that morning from the foaming river—and with a deep horn of home-brewed ale, the young warriors mounted a couple of active horses, and rode up the mountain path that led in a zigzag direction over the fells to the valley of the Springs. They rode in silence at first—partly because the nature of the track compelled them to advance in single file, and partly because each was in the worst possible humour of which his nature was capable, while each felt indignant at the other, although neither could have said that his friend had been guilty of any definable sin.

It may here be mentioned in passing, that Glumm had clothed and armed himself much in the same fashion as his companion, the chief difference being that his helmet was of polished steel, and the centre of his shield was painted red, while that of Erling was white. His only offensive weapons were a dagger and the long two-handed sword which had been forged for him by his friend, which latter was slung across his back.

An hour and a half of steady climbing brought the youths to the level summit of the hills, where, after giving their steeds a few minutes to breathe, they set off at a sharp gallop. Here they rode side by side, but the rough nature of the ground rendered it necessary to ride with care, so that conversation, although possible, was not, in the circumstances, very desirable. The silence, therefore, was maintained all the way across the fells. When they came to descend on the other side they were again obliged to advance in single file, so that the silence remained unbroken until they reached the base of the mountains.

Here Erling’s spirit revived a little, and he began to realise the absurdity of the conduct of himself and his friend.

“Why, Glumm,” he exclaimed at last, “a dumb spirit must have got hold of us! What possesses thee, man?”

“Truly it takes two to make a conversation,” said Glumm sulkily.

“That is as thou sayest, friend, yet I am not aware that I refused to talk with thee,” retorted Erling.

“Nor I with thee,” said Glumm sharply, “and thy tongue was glib enough when ye talked with Ada in Horlingdal.”

A light flashed upon Erling as his friend spoke.

“Why, Glumm,” he said lightly, “a pretty girl will make most men’s tongues wag whether they will or no.”

Glumm remembered his own obstinate silence while walking with Hilda, and deeming this a studied insult he became furious, reined up and said:

“Come, Erling, if ye wish to settle this dispute at once we need fear no interruption, and here is a piece of level sward.”

“Nay, man, be not so hot,” said Erling, with a smile that still more exasperated his companion; “besides, is it fair to challenge me to fight with this light weapon while thou bearest a sword so long and deadly?”

“That shall be no bar,” cried the other, unslinging his two-handed sword; “thou canst use it thyself, and I will content me with thine.”

“And pray, how shall we give account of our mission,” said Erling, “if you and I cut each other’s heads off before fulfilling it?”

“That would then concern us little,” said Glumm.

“Nay, thou art more selfish than I thought thee, friend. For my part, I would not that she should think me so regardless of her welfare as to leave undelivered a message that may be the means of preventing the ruin of Horlingdal. My regard for Ada seems to sit more heavily on me than on thee.”

At this Glumm became still more furious. He leaped off his horse, drew his sword, and flinging it down with the hilt towards Erling, cried in a voice of suppressed passion:

“No longer will I submit to be trifled with by man or woman. Choose thy weapon, Erling. This matter shall be settled now and here, and the one who wins her shall prove him worthy of her by riding forth from this plain alone. If thou art bent on equal combat we can fall to with staves cut from yonder tree, or, for the matter of that, we can make shift to settle it with our knives. What! has woman’s love unmanned thee?”

At this Erling leaped out of the saddle, and drew his sword.

“Take up thy weapon, Glumm, and guard thee. But before we begin, perhaps it would be well to ask for whose hand it is that we fight.”

“Have we not been talking just now of Ada the Dark-eyed?” said Glumm sternly, as he took up his sword and threw himself into a posture of defence, with the energetic action of a man thoroughly in earnest.

“Then is our combat uncalled for,” said Erling, lowering his point, “for I desire not the hand of Ada, though I would fight even to the death for her blue-eyed sister, could I hope thereby to win her love.”

“Art thou in earnest?” demanded Glumm in surprise.

“I never was more so in my life,” replied Erling; “would that Hilda regarded me with but half the favour that Ada shows to thee!”

“There thou judgest wrongly,” said Glumm, from whose brow the frown of anger was passing away like a thundercloud before the summer sun. “I don’t pretend to understand a girl’s thoughts, but I have wit enough to see what is very plainly revealed. When I walked with Hilda to-day I noticed that her eye followed thee unceasingly, and although she talked to me glibly enough, her thoughts were wandering, so that she uttered absolute nonsense at times—insomuch that I would have laughed had I not been jealous of what I deemed the mutual love of Ada and thee. No, Erling, thy suit will prosper, depend on’t. It is I who have reason to despond, for Ada loves me not.”

Erling, who heard all this with a certain degree of satisfaction, smiled, shook his head, and said:

“Nay, then, Glumm, thou too art mistaken. The dark-eyed Ada laughs at everyone, and besides, I have good reason to know that her interest in thee is so great that she consulted me to-day about—about—a—”

The promise of secrecy that he had made caused Erling to stammer and stop.

“About what?” asked Glumm.

“I may not tell thee, friend. She bound me over to secrecy, and I must hold by my promise; but this I may say, that thou hast fully greater cause for hope than I have.”

“Then it is my opinion,” said Glumm, “that we have nothing to do but shake hands and proceed on our journey.”

Erling laughed heartily, sheathed his sword, and grasped his friend’s hand, after which they remounted and rode forward; but they did not now ride in silence. Their tongues were effectually loosened, and for some time they discussed their respective prospects with all the warmth and enthusiasm of youthful confidants.

“But Ada perplexes me,” suddenly exclaimed Glumm, in the midst of a brief pause; “I know not how to treat her.”

“If thou wilt take my advice, Glumm, I will give it thee.”

“What is that?” asked Glumm.

“There is nothing like fighting a woman with her own weapons.”

“A pretty speech,” said Glumm, “to come from the lips of a man who never regards the weapons of his foes, and can scarce be prevailed on to carry anything but a beloved battle-axe.”

“The case is entirely the reverse when one fights with woman,” replied Erling. “In war I confess that I like everything to be straightforward and downright, because when things come to the worst a man can either hew his way by main force through thick and thin, or die. Truly, I would that it were possible to act thus in matters of love also, but this being impossible—seeing that women will not have it so, and insist on dallying—the next best thing to be done is to act on their own principles. Fight them with their own weapons. If a woman is outspoken and straightforward, a man should be the same—and rejoice, moreover, that he has found a gem so precious. But if she will play fast and loose, let a man—if he does not give her up at once—do the same. Give Ada a little taste of indifference, Glumm, and thou wilt soon bring her down. Laugh at her as well as with her. Show not quite so much attention to her as has been thy wont; and be more attentive to the other girls in the dale—”

“To Hilda, for instance,” said Glumm slyly.

“Aye, even so, an it please thee,” rejoined Erling; “but rest assured thou wilt receive no encouragement in that quarter; for Hilda the Sunbeam is the very soul of innocence, truth, and straightforwardness.”

“Not less so is Ada,” said Glumm, firing up at the implied contrast.

Erling made a sharp rejoinder, to which Glumm made a fierce reply; and it is probable that these hot-blooded youths, having quarrelled because of a misunderstanding in regard to their mistresses, would have come to blows about their comparative excellence, had they not come suddenly upon a sight which, for the time, banished all other thoughts from their minds.

During the discussion they had been descending the valley which terminated in the plain where the recent battle of the Springs had been fought. Here, as they galloped across the field, which was still strewn with the bodies of the slain, they came upon the blackened ruins of a hut, around which an old hag was moving, actively engaged, apparently, in raking among the ashes with a forked stick for anything that she could draw forth.

Near to her a woman, who had not yet reached middle age, was seated on the burnt earth, with her hands tightly clasped, and her bloodshot eyes gazing with a stony stare at a blackened heap which lay on her lap. As the young men rode up they saw that part of the head and face of a child lay in the midst of the charred heap, with a few other portions of the little one that had been only partially consumed in the fire.

The Northmen did not require to be told the cause of what they saw. The story was too plainly written in everything around them to admit of uncertainty, had they even been ignorant of the recent fight and its consequences. These were two of the few survivors of that terrible night, who had ventured to creep forth from the mountains and search among the ashes for the remains of those whose smiles and voices had once made the sunshine of their lives. The terrible silence of these voices and the sight of these hideous remains had driven the grandmother of the household raving mad, and she continued to rake among the still smouldering embers of the old house, utterly regardless of the two warriors, and only complaining, in a querulous tone now and then, that her daughter should sit there like a stone and leave her unaided to do the work of trying to save at least some of the household from the flames. But the daughter neither heard nor cared for her. She had found what was left of her idol—her youngest child—once a ruddy, fearless boy, with curly flaxen hair, who had already begun to carve model longships and wooden swords, and to talk with a joyous smile and flashing eye of war! but now—the fair hair gone, and nothing left save a blackened skull and a small portion of his face, scarcely enough—yet to a mother far more than enough—to recognise him by.

Erling and Glumm dismounted and approached the young woman, but received no glance of recognition. To a remark made by Erling no reply was given. He therefore went close to her, and, bending down, laid his large hand on her head, and gently smoothed her flaxen hair, while he spoke soothingly to her. Still the stricken woman took no notice of him until a large hot tear, which the youth could not restrain, dropped upon her forehead, and coursed down her cheek. She then looked suddenly up in Erling’s face and uttered a low wail of agony.

“Would ye slay her too?” shrieked the old woman at that moment, coming forward with the pole with which she had been raking in the ashes, as if she were going to attack them.

Glumm turned aside the point of the pole, and gently caught the old woman by the arm.

“Oh! spare her,” she cried, falling on her knees and clasping her withered hands; “spare her, she is the last left—the last. I tried to save the others—but, but, they are gone—all gone. Will ye not spare her?”

“They won’t harm us, mother,” said the younger woman huskily. “They are friends. I know they are friends. Come, sit by me, mother.”

The old woman, who appeared to have been subdued by exhaustion, crept on her hands and knees to her side, and laying her head on her daughter’s breast, moaned piteously.

“We cannot stay to aid thee,” said Erling kindly; “but that matters not because those will soon be here who will do their best for thee. Yet if thou canst travel a few leagues, I will give thee a token which will ensure a good reception in my father’s house. Knowest thou Haldorstede in Horlingdal?”

“I know it well,” answered the woman.

“Here is a ring,” said Erling, “which thou wilt take to Herfrida, the wife of Haldor, and say that her son Erling sent thee, and would have thee and thy mother well cared for.”

He took from his finger, as he spoke, a gold ring, and placed it in the woman’s hand, but she shook her head sadly, and said in an absent tone: “I dare not go. Swart might come back and would miss me.”

“Art thou the wife of Swart of the Springs?”

“Yes; and he told me not to quit the house till he came back. But that seems so long, long ago, and so many things have happened since, that—”

She paused and shuddered.

“Swart is dead,” said Glumm.

On hearing this the woman uttered a wild shriek, and fell backward to the earth.

“Now a plague on thy gruff tongue,” said Erling angrily, as he raised the woman’s head on his knee. “Did you not see that the weight was already more than she could bear? Get thee to the spring for water, man, as quickly as may be.”

Glumm, whose heart had already smitten him for his inconsiderate haste, made no reply, but ran to a neighbouring spring, and quickly returned with his helmet full of water. A little of this soon restored the poor woman, and also her mother.

“Now haste thee to Horlingdal,” said Erling, giving the woman a share of the small supply of food with which he had supplied himself for the journey. “There may be company more numerous than pleasant at the Springs to-morrow, and a hearty welcome awaits thee at Haldorstede.”

Saying this he remounted and rode away.

“I was told last night by Hilda,” said Erling, “that, when we were out after the Danes, and just before the attack was made by the men of their cutter on Ulfstede, the hermit had been talking to the women in a wonderful way about war and the God whom he worships. He thinks that war is an evil thing; that to fight in self-defence—that is, in defence of home and country—is right, but that to go on viking cruise is wrong, and displeasing to God.”

“The hermit is a fool,” said Glumm bluntly.

“Nay, he is no fool,” said Erling. “When I think of these poor women, I am led to wish that continued peace were possible.”

“But it is, happily, not possible; therefore it is our business to look upon the bright side of war,” said Glumm.

“That may be thy business, Glumm, but it is my business to look upon both sides of everything. What would it avail thee to pitch and paint and gild the outside of thy longship, if no attention were given to the timbering and planking of the inside?”

“That is a different thing,” said Glumm.

“Yes, truly; yet not different in this, that it has two sides, both of which require to be looked at, if the ship is to work well. I would that I knew what the men of other lands think on this point, for the hermit says that there are nations in the south where men practise chiefly defensive warfare, and often spend years at a time without drawing the sword.”

“Right glad am I,” said Glumm, with a grim smile, “that my lot has not fallen among these.”

“Do you know,” continued Erling, “that I have more than once thought of going off on a cruise far and wide over the world to hear and see what men say and do? But something, I know not what, prevents me.”

“Perchance Hilda could tell thee!” said Glumm.

Erling laughed, and said there was some truth in that; but checked himself suddenly, for at that moment a man in the garb of a thrall appeared.

“Ho! fellow,” cried Glumm, “hast heard of King Harald Haarfager of late?”

“The King is in guest-quarters in Updal,” answered the thrall, “in the house of Jarl Rongvold, my master.”

“We must speed on,” said Erling to Glumm, “if we would speak with the King before supper-time.”

“If you would speak with the King at all,” said the thrall, “the less you say to him the better, for he is in no mood to be troubled just now. He sets out for the Springs to-morrow morning.”

Without making a reply the youths clapped spurs to their horses and galloped away.

Chapter Eleven.

Describes our Hero’s Interview with Jarl Rongvold and King Harald Haarfager.

Late in the evening, Erling and Glumm arrived in the neighbourhood of the house of Jarl Rongvold, where King Harald Haarfager was staying in guest-quarters with a numerous retinue.

In the days of which we write there were no royal palaces in Norway. The kings spent most of their time—when not engaged in war or out on viking cruises—in travelling about the country, with a band of “herd-men”, or men-at-arms, in “guest-quarters”. Wherever they went the inhabitants were bound by law to afford them house-room and good cheer at their own cost, and the kings usually made this tax upon their people as light as possible by staying only a few days at each place.

Rongvold, who entertained the King at this time, was one of those Jarls or Earls—rulers over districts under himself—of whom he had recently created many throughout the land, to supersede those small independent kings who refused to become subject to him. He was a stout warrior, an able courtier, and a very dear friend of the King.

Just before his arrival at Jarl Rongvold’s house, King Harald had completed a considerable part of the programme which he had laid down in the great work of subduing the whole of Norway to himself. And wild bloody work it had been.

Hearing that several of the small kings had called a meeting in the uplands to discuss his doings, Harald went, with all the men he could gather, through the forests to the uplands, came to the place of meeting about midnight without being observed by the watchmen, set the house on fire, and burnt or slew four kings with all their followers. After that he subdued Hedemark, Ringerige, Gudbrandsdal, Hadeland, Raumarige, and the whole northern part of Vingulmark, and got possession of all the land as far south as the Glommen. It was at this time that he was taunted by the girl Gyda, and took the oath not to clip his hair until he had subdued the whole land—as formerly related. After his somewhat peculiar determination, he gathered together a great force, and went northwards up the Gudbrandsdal and over the Doverfielde. When he came to the inhabited land he ordered all the men to be killed, and everything wide around to be delivered to the flames. The people fled before him in all directions on hearing of his approach—some down the country to Orkadal, some to Gaulerdal, and some to the forests; but many begged for peace, and obtained it on condition of joining him and becoming his men. He met no decided opposition till he came to Orkadal, where a king named Gryting gave him battle. Harald won the victory. King Gryting was taken prisoner, and most of his men were killed. He took service himself, however, under the King, and thereafter all the people of Orkadal district swore fidelity to him.

Many other battles King Harald fought, and many other kings did he subdue—all of which, however, we will pass over at present, merely observing that wherever he conquered he laid down the law that all the udal property should belong to him, and that the bonders—the hitherto free landholders—both small and great, should pay him land dues for their possessions. It is due, however, to Harald Fairhair, to say that he never seems to have aimed at despotic power; for it is recorded of him that over every district he set an earl, or jarl, to judge according to the law of the land and to justice, and also to collect the land dues and the fines; and for this each earl received a third part of the dues and services and fines for the support of his table and other expenses. Every earl had under him four or more bersers, on each of whom was bestowed an estate of twenty merks yearly, for which he was bound to support twenty men-at-arms at his own expense—each earl being obliged to support sixty retainers. The King increased the land dues and burdens so much that his earls had greater power and income than the kings had before, and when this became known at Drontheim many of the great men of that district joined the King.

Wherever Harald went, submission or extinction were the alternatives; and as he carried things with a high hand, using fire and sword freely, it is not a matter of wonder that his conquests were rapid and complete. It has been said of Harald Fairhair by his contemporaries, handed down by the scalds, and recorded in the Icelandic Sagas, that he was of remarkably handsome appearance, great and strong, and very generous and affable to his men.

But to return.

It was late in the evening, as we have said, when Erling and Glumm reached the vicinity of Jarl Rongvold’s dwelling. Before coming in sight of it they were met by two of the mounted guards that were posted regularly as sentries round the King’s quarters. These challenged them at once, and, on being informed that they desired to have speech with the King on matters of urgency, conveyed them past the inner guard to the house.

The state of readiness for instant action in which the men were kept did not escape the observant eyes of the visitors. Besides an outlying mounted patrol, which they had managed to pass unobserved, and the sentries who conducted them, they found a strong guard round the range of farm buildings where the King and his men lay. These men were all well armed, and those of them who were not on immediate duty lay at their stations sound asleep, each man with his helmet on his head, his sword under it, his right hand grasping the hilt, and his shield serving the purpose of a blanket to cover him.

Although the young men observed all this they did not suffer their looks to betray idle curiosity, but rode on with stern countenances, looking, apparently, straight before them, until they reined up at the front door of the house.

In a few minutes a stout handsome man with white hair came out and saluted Erling in a friendly way. This was Jarl Rongvold, who was distantly related to him.

“I would I could say with truth that I am glad to see thee, cousin,” he said, “but I fear me that thine errand to the King is not likely to end in pleasant intercourse, if all be true that is reported of the folk in Horlingdal.”

“Thanks, kinsman, for the wish, if not for the welcome,” replied the youth, somewhat stiffly, as he dismounted; “but it matters little to me whether our intercourse be pleasant or painful, so long as it is profitable. The men of Horlingdal send a message to Harald Haarfager; can my companion and I have speech with him?”

“I can manage that for thee, yet would I counsel delay, for the King is not in a sweet mood to-night, and it may go ill with thee.”

“I care not whether the King’s mood be sweet or sour,” replied Erling sternly. “Whatever he may become in the future, Harald is not yet the all-powerful king he would wish to be. The men of Horlingdal have held a Thing, and Glumm and I have been deputed to see the King, convey to him their sentiments, and ask his intentions.”

A grim smile played on the jarl’s fine features for a moment, as he observed the blood mantling to the youth’s forehead.

“No good will come to thee or thine, kinsman, by meeting the King with a proud look. Be advised, Erling,” he continued in a more confidential tone; “it is easier to swim with the stream than against it—and wiser too, when it is impossible to turn it. Thou hast heard, no doubt, of Harald’s doings in the north.”

“I have heard,” said Erling bitterly.

“Well, be he right or be he wrong, it were easier to make the Glommen run up the fells than to alter the King’s determination; and it seems to me that it behoves every man who loves his country, and would spare further bloodshed, to submit to what is inevitable.”

“Every lover of his country deems bloodshed better than slavery,” said Erling, “because the death of a few is not so great an evil as the slavery of all.”

“Aye, when there is hope that good may come of dying,” rejoined the jarl, “but now there is no hope.”

“That is yet to be proved,” said the youth; and Glumm uttered one of those emphatic grunts with which men of few words are wont to signify their hearty assent to a proposition.

“Tut, kinsman,” continued Rongvold, with a look of perplexity, “I don’t like the idea of seeing so goodly a youth end his days before his right time. Let me assure thee that, if thou wilt join us and win over thy friends in Horlingdal, a splendid career awaits thee, for the King loves stout men, and will treat thee well; he is a good master.”

“It grieves me that one whose blood flows in my veins should call any man master!” said Erling.

“Now a plague on thee, for a stupid hot-blood,” cried the jarl; “if thou art so displeased with the word, I can tell thee that it need never be used, for, if ye will take service with the King, he will give thee the charge and the revenues of a goodly district, where thou shalt be master and a jarl too.”

“I am a king!” said Erling, drawing himself proudly up. “Thinkest thou I would exchange an old title for a new one, which the giver has no right to create?”

Glumm uttered another powerfully emphatic grunt at this point.

“Besides,” continued Erling, “I have no desire to become a scatt-gatherer.”

The jarl flushed a little at this thrust, but mastering his indignation said, with a smile—

“Nay, then, if ye prefer a warrior’s work there is plenty of that at the disposal of the King.”

“I have no particular love for war,” said Erling. Jarl Rongvold looked at his kinsman in undisguised amazement.

“Truly thou art well fitted for it, if not fond of it,” he said curtly; “but as thou art bent on following thine own nose, thou art like to have more than enough of that which thou lovest not.—Come, I will bring thee to the King.”

The jarl led the two young men into his dwelling, where nearly a hundred men-at-arms were carousing. The hall was a long, narrow, and high apartment, with a table running down each side, and one at either end. In the centre of each table was a raised seat, on which sat the chief guests, but, at the moment they entered, the highest of these seats was vacant, for the King had left the table. The fireplace of the hall was in the centre, and the smoke from it curled up among the rafters, which it blackened before escaping through a hole in the roof.

As all the revellers were armed, and many of them were moving about the hall, no notice was taken of the entrance of the strangers, except that one or two near whom they passed remarked that Jarl Rongvold owned some stout men-at-arms.

The King had retired to one of the sleeping-chambers off the great halt in which he sat at a small window, gazing dreamily upon the magnificent view of dale, fell, fiord, and sea, that lay stretched out before the house. The slanting rays of the sun shone through the window, and through the heavy masses of the King’s golden hair, which fell in enormous volumes, like a lion’s mane, on a pair of shoulders which were noted, even in that age of powerful men, for enormous breadth and strength. Like his men, King Harald was armed from head to foot, with the exception of his helmet, which lay, with his shield, on the low wolf-skin couch on which he had passed the previous night.

He did not move when the jarl and the young men entered, but on the former whispering in his ear he let his clenched fist fall on the window sill, and, turning, with a frown on his bold, handsome face, looked long and steadily at Erling. And well might he gaze, for he looked upon one who bore a singularly strong resemblance to himself. There was the same height and width and massive strength, the same bold, fearless look in the clear blue eyes, and the same firm lips; but Erling’s hair fell in softer curls on his shoulders, and his brow was more intellectual. Being a younger man, his beard was shorter.

Advancing a step, after Jarl Rongvold had left the room, Erling stated the sentiments of the men of Horlingdal in simple, blunt language, and ended by telling the King that they had no wish to refuse due and lawful allegiance to him, but that they objected to having the old customs of the land illegally altered.

During the progress of his statement both Erling and Glumm observed that the King’s face flushed more than once, and that his great blue eyes blazed with astonishment and suppressed wrath. After he had concluded, the King still gazed at him in ominous silence. Then he said, sternly:

“For what purpose camest thou hither if the men of Horlingdal hold such opinions?”

“We came to tell you, King Harald, what the men of Horlingdal think, and to ask what you intend to do.”

There was something so cool in this speech that a sort of grin curled the King’s moustache, and mingled with the wrath that was gathering on his countenance.

“I’ll tell thee what I will do,” he said, drawing his breath sharply, and hissing the words; “I will march into the dale, and burn and s—” He stopped abruptly, and then in a soft tone added, “But what will they do if I refuse to listen to them?”

“I know not what the men of Horlingdal will do,” replied Erling; “but I will counsel them to defend their rights.”

At this the King leaped up, and drew his sword half out of its scabbard, but again checked himself suddenly; for, as the Saga tells us, “it was his invariable rule, whenever anything raised his anger, to collect himself and let his passion run off, and then take the matter into consideration coolly.”

“Go,” he said, sitting down again at the window, “I will speak with thee on this subject to-morrow.”

Erling, who during the little burst of passion had kept his blue eyes unflinchingly fixed on those of the King, bowed and retired, followed by Glumm, whose admiration of his friend’s diplomatic powers would have been unbounded, had he only wound up with a challenge to the King, then and there, to single combat!

Chapter Twelve.

Describes a Terrific and Unequal Combat.

“Now, kinsman, let me endeavour to convince thee of thy folly,” said Jarl Rongvold to Erling, on the morning that followed the evening in which the interview with the King had taken place, as they walked in front of the house together.

“It needs no great power of speech to convince me of that,” said Erling. “The fact that I am still here, after what the King let out last night, convinces me, without your aid, that I am a fool.”

“And pray what said he that has had such powerful influence on thine obtuse mind?”

“Truly he said little, but he expressed much. He gave way to an unreasonable burst of passion when I did but claim justice and assert our rights; and the man must be slow-witted indeed who could believe that subdued passion is changed opinion. However, I will wait for another interview until the sun is in the zenith—after that I leave, whatever be the consequences. So it were well, kinsman, that you should see and advise with your master.”

The jarl bit his lip, and was on the point of turning away without replying, when a remarkably stout and tall young man walked up and accosted them.

“This is my son Rolf,” said the jarl, turning round hastily.—“Our kinsman, Erling the Bold. I go to attend the King. Make the most of each other, for ye are not likely to be long in company.”

“Are you that Rolf who is styled Ganger?” enquired Erling with some interest.

“Aye,” replied the other gruffly. “At least I am Rolf. Men choose to call me Ganger because I prefer to gang on my legs rather than gang on the legs of a horse. They say it is because no horse can carry me; but thou seest that that is a lie, for I am not much heavier than thyself.”

“I should like to know thee better, kinsman,” said Erling.

Rolf Ganger did not respond so heartily to this as Erling wished, and he felt much disappointed; for, being a man who did not often express his feelings, he felt all the more keenly anything like a rebuff.

“What is your business with the King?” asked Rolf, after a short pause.

“To defy him,” said our hero, under the influence of a burst of mingled feelings.

Rolf Ganger looked at Erling in surprise.

“Thou dost not like the King, then?”

“I hate him!”

“So do I,” said Rolf.

This interchange of sentiment seemed to break down the barriers of diffidence which had hitherto existed between the two, for from that moment their talk was earnest and confidential. Erling tried to get Rolf to desert the King’s cause and join his opponents, but the latter shook his head, and said that they had no chance of success; and that it was of no use joining a hopeless cause, even although he had strong sympathy with it. While they were conversing, Jarl Rongvold came out and summoned Erling to the presence of the King.

This was the first and last interview that our hero had with that Rolf Ganger, whose name—although not much celebrated at that time—was destined to appear in the pages of history as that of the conqueror of Normandy, and the progenitor of line of English kings.

“I have sent for thee, Erling,” said the King, in a voice so soft, yet so constrained, that Erling could not avoid seeing that it was forced, “to tell thee thou art at liberty to return to thy dalesmen with this message—King Harald respects the opinions of the men of Horlingdal, and he will hold a Thing at the Springs for the purpose of hearing their views more fully, stating his own, and consulting with them about the whole matter.—Art satisfied with that?” he asked, almost sternly.

“I will convey your message,” said Erling.

“And the sooner the better,” said the King. “By the way, there are two roads leading to the Springs, I am told; is it so?” he added.

“There are,” said Erling; “one goes by the uplands over the fells, the other through the forest.”

“Which would you recommend me to follow when I fare to the Springs?”

“The forest road is the best.”

“It is that which thou wilt follow, I suppose?”

“It is,” replied Erling.

“Well, get thee to horse, and make the most of thy time; my berserk here will guide thee past the guards.”

As he spoke, a man who had stood behind the King motionless as a statue advanced towards the door. He was one of a peculiar class of men who formed part of the bodyguard of the King. On his head there was a plain steel helmet, but he wore no “serk”, or shirt of mail (hence the name of berserk, or bare of serk), and he was, like the rest of his comrades, noted for being capable of working himself up into such a fury of madness while in action, that few people of ordinary powers could stand before his terrible onset. He was called Hake, the berserk of Hadeland, and was comparatively short in stature, but looked shorter than he really was, in consequence of the unnatural breadth and bulk of his chest and shoulders. Hake led Erling out to the door of the house, where they found Glumm waiting with two horses ready for the road.

“Thou art sharp this morning, Glumm.”

“Better to be too sharp than too blunt,” replied his friend. “It seemed to me that whatever should be the result of the talk with the King to-day, it were well to be ready for the road in good time. What is yonder big-shouldered fellow doing?”

“Hush, Glumm,” said Erling, with a smile, “thou must be respectful if thou wouldst keep thy head on thy shoulders. That is Hake of Hadeland, King Harald’s famous berserk. He is to conduct us past the guards. I only hope he may not have been commissioned to cut off our heads on the way. But I think that perchance you and I might manage him together, if our courage did not fail us!”

Glumm replied with that expression of contempt which is usually styled turning up one’s nose, and Erling laughed as he mounted his horse and rode off at the heels of the berserk. He had good reason to look grave, however, as he found out a few moments later. Just as they were about to enter the forest, a voice was heard shouting behind, and Jarl Rongvold was seen running after them.

“Ho! stay, kinsman, go not away without bidding us farewell. A safe and speedy journey, lad, and give my good wishes to the old folk at Haldorstede. Say that I trust things may yet be happily arranged between the men of Horlingdal and the King.”

As he spoke the jarl managed to move so that Erling’s horse came between him and the berserk; then he said quickly, in a low but earnest whisper:

“The King means to play thee false, Erling. I cannot explain, but do thou be sure to take the road by the fells, and let not the berserk know. Thy life depends on it. I am ordered to send this berserk with a troop of nineteen men to waylay thee. They are to go by the forest road.—There, thou canst not doubt my friendship for thee, for now my life is in thy hands! Haste, thou hast no chance against such odds. Farewell, Glumm,” he added aloud; “give my respects to Ulf, when next ye see him.”

Jarl Rongvold waved his hand as he turned round and left his friends to pursue their way.

They soon reached the point where they had met the two guards on the previous day. After riding a little farther, so as to make sure of being beyond the outmost patrol, the berserk reined up.

“Here I leave you to guard yourselves,” he said.

“Truly we are indebted to thee for thy guidance thus far,” said Erling.

“If you should still chance to meet with any of the guards, they will let you pass, no doubt.”

“No doubt,” replied Erling, with a laugh, “and, should they object, we have that which will persuade them.”

He touched the hilt of his sword, and nodded good-humouredly to the berserk, who did not appear to relish the jest at all.

“Your road lies through the forest, I believe?” said Hake, pausing and looking back as he was about to ride away.

“That depends on circumstances,” said Erling. “If the sun troubles me, I may go by the forest,—if not, I may go by the fells. But I never can tell beforehand which way my fancy may lead, and I always follow it.”

So saying he put spurs to his horse and galloped away.

The berserk did the same, but it was evident that he was ill at ease, for he grumbled very much, and complained a good deal of his ill luck. He did not, however, slacken his pace on that account, but rather increased it, until he reached Rongvoldstede, where he hastily summoned nineteen armed men, mounted a fresh horse, and, ordering them to follow, dashed back into the forest at full speed.

For some time he rode in silence by the side of a stout man who was his subordinate officer.

“Krake,” he said at length, “I cannot make up my mind which road this Erling and his comrade are likely to have taken, so, as we must not miss our men, the King’s commands being very positive, I intend to send thee by the mountain road with nine of the men, and go myself by the forest with the other nine. We will ride each at full speed, and will be sure to overtake them before they reach the split rock on the fells, or the double-stemmed pine in the forest. If thou shalt fall in with them, keep them in play till I come up, for I will hasten to join thee without delay after reaching the double pine. If I meet them I will give the attack at once, and thou wilt hasten to join me after passing the split rock. Now, away, for here our roads part.”

In accordance with this plan the troop was divided, and each portion rode off at full speed.

Meanwhile Erling and Glumm pursued their way, chatting as they rode along, and pausing occasionally to breathe their horses.

“What ails thee, Erling?” said Glumm abruptly. “One would fancy that the fair Hilda was behind thee, so often hast thou looked back since the berserk left us.”

“It is because the fair Hilda is before me that I look so often over my shoulder, for I suspect that there are those behind us who will one day cause her grief,” replied Erling sadly; then, assuming a gay air, he added—“Come, friend Glumm, I wish to know thy mind in regard to a matter of some importance. How wouldst thou like to engage, single handed, with ten men?”

Glumm smiled grimly, as he was wont to do when amused by anything—which, to say truth, was not often.

“Truly,” said he, “my answer to that must depend on thine answer to this—Am I supposed to have my back against a cliff, or to be surrounded by the ten?”

“With thy back guarded, of course.”

“In that case I should not refuse the fight, but I would prefer to be more equally matched,” said Glumm, “Two to one, now, is a common chance of war, as thou knowest full well. I myself have had four against me at one time—and when one is in good spirits this is not a serious difficulty, unless there chance to be a berserk amongst them; even in that case, by the use of a little activity of limb, one can separate them, and so kill them in detail. But ten are almost too many for one man, however bold, big, or skilful he may be.”

“Then what—wouldst thou say to twenty against two?” asked Erling, giving a peculiar glance at his friend.

“That were better than ten to one, because two stout fellows back to back are not easily overcome, if the fight be fair with sword and axe, and arrows or spears be not allowed. Thou and I, Erling, might make a good stand together against twenty, for we can use our weapons, and are not small men. Nevertheless, I think that it would be our last fight, though I make no doubt we should thin their number somewhat. But why ask such questions?”

“Because I have taken a fancy to know to what extent I might count on thee in case of surprise.”

“To what extent!” said Glumm, flushing, and looking his friend full in the face. “Hast known me so long to such small purpose, that ye should doubt my willingness to stand by thee to the death, if need be, against any odds?”

“Nay, be not so hasty, Glumm. I doubt not thy courage nor thy regard for me, but I had a fancy to know what amount of odds thou wouldst deem serious, for I may tell thee that our powers are likely to be put to the proof to-day. My kinsman, Jarl Rongvold, told me at parting that twenty men—and among them Hake the berserk—are to be sent after us, and are doubtless even now upon our track.”

“Then why this easy pace?” said Glumm, in a tone of great surprise. “Surely there is no reason why we should abide the issue of such a combat when nothing is to be gained by it and much to be lost; for if we are killed, who will prepare the men of Horlingdal for the King’s approach, and tell of his intentions?”

“That is wisely spoken, Glumm; nevertheless I feel disposed to meet King Harald’s men.”

“This spirit accords ill with the assertion that thou art not fond of war,” returned Glumm, with a smile.

“I am not so sure of that,” rejoined Erling, with a look of perplexity. “It is more the consequences of war—its evil effects on communities, on women and children—that I dislike, than the mere matter of fighting, which, although I cannot say I long for it, as some of our friends do, I can truly assert I take some pleasure in, when engaged in it. Besides, in this case I do not wish to meet these fellows for a mere piece of brag, but I think it might teach King Harald that he has to do with men who have heart and skill to use their weapons, and show him what he may expect if he tries to subdue this district. However, be that as it may, the question is, shall we hang back and accept this challenge—for such I regard it—or shall we push on?”

“Yonder is an answer to that question, which settles it for us,” said Glumm quietly, pointing to a ridge on the right of the bridle path, which rose high above the tree tops. A troop of horsemen were seen to cross it and gallop down the slope, where they quickly disappeared in the forest.

“How many didst thou count?” asked Erling, with a look of surprise.

“Only ten,” answered Glumm.

“Come,” cried Erling cheerfully, as he drew his sword, “the odds are not so great as we had expected. I suppose that King Harald must have thought us poor-looking warriors, or perchance he has sent ten berserkers against us. Anyhow I am content. Only one thing do I regret, and that is, that, among the other foolish acts I have been guilty of at this time, I left my good battle-axe behind me. This is a level piece of sward. Shall we await them here?”

“Aye,” was Glumm’s laconic answer, as he felt the edge of his long two-handed sword, settled himself more firmly on his seat, and carefully looked to the fastenings of his armour.

Erling did the same, and both drew up their steeds with their backs towards an impenetrable thicket. In front lay a level stretch of ground, encumbered only here and there with one or two small bushes, beyond which they had a view far into the dark forest, where the armour of the approaching horsemen could be seen glancing among the tree stems.

“It is likely,” muttered Erling, “that they will try to speak us fair at first. Most assassins do, to throw men off their guard. I counsel that our words be few and our action quick.”

Glumm gave vent to a deep, short laugh, which sounded, however, marvellously like a growl, and again said—

“Aye.”

Next moment the ten horsemen galloped towards them, and reined up at the distance of a few yards, while two of them advanced. One of these, who was no other than Krake the berserk, said in a loud, commanding voice—

“Yield thee, Erling, in the name of the King!”

“That for the King!” cried Erling, splitting the head of Krake’s horse with the edge of his sword, and receiving Krake himself on the point of it as he fell forward, so that it went in at his breast and came out at his back. At the same time Glumm’s horse sprang forward, his long sword whistled sharply as it flashed through the air, and, next moment, the head of the second man was rolling on the ground.

So sudden was the onset that the others had barely time to guard themselves when Glumm’s heavy sword cleft the top of the shield and the helmet of one, tumbling him out of the saddle, while the point of Erling’s lighter weapon pierced the throat of another. The remaining six turned aside, right and left, so as to divide their opponents, and then attacked them with great fury—for they were all brave and picked men. At first Erling and Glumm had enough to do to defend themselves, without attempting to attack, but at a critical moment the horse of one of Glumm’s opponents stumbled, and his rider being exposed was instantly cut down. Glumm now uttered a shout, for he felt sure of victory, having only two to deal with. Erling’s sword proved to be too short for such a combat, for his enemies were armed with long and heavy weapons, and one of them had a spear. He eluded their assaults, however, with amazing activity, and wounded one of them so badly that he was obliged to retire from the fray. Seeing this our hero made a sudden rush at one of the men who fought with a battle-axe, seized the axe by the handle, and with one sweep of his sword lopped off the man’s arm.

Then did Erling also feel that victory was secure, for he now wielded an axe that was almost as good and heavy as his own, and only one man stood before him. Under the impulse of this feeling he uttered a shout which rang through the forest like the roar of a lion.

Now, well would it have been for both Erling and Glumm if they had restrained themselves on that occasion, for the shouts they uttered served to guide two bands of enemies who were in search of them.

It will be remembered that Hake the berserk had gone after our heroes by the forest road, but, not finding them so soon as he had anticipated, and feeling a sort of irresistible belief that they had after all gone by the fells, he altered his own plans in so far that he turned towards the road leading by the mountains, before he reached the pine with the double stem. Thus he just missed those whom he sought, and, after some time, came to the conclusion that he was a fool, and had made a great mistake in not holding to his original plan. By way of improving matters he divided his little band into two, and sending five of his men in one direction, rode off with the remaining four in another. Krake, on the contrary, had fulfilled his orders to the letter; had gone to the split rock, and then hastened to the double-stemmed pine, not far from which, as we have seen, he found the men of whom he was in search, and also met his death.

One of the bands of five men chanced to be within earshot when Erling shouted, and they immediately bore down in the direction, and cheered as they came in sight of the combatants. The three men who yet stood up to our friends wheeled about at once and galloped to meet them, only too glad to be reinforced at such a critical moment.

There was a little stream which trickled over the edge of a rock close to the spot where the combat had taken place. Erling and Glumm leaped off their horses as if by one impulse, and, running to this, drank deeply and hastily. As they ran back and vaulted into their saddles, they heard a faint cheer in the far distance.

“Ha!” exclaimed Erling, “Harald doubtless did send twenty men after all, for here come the rest of them. It is good fortune that a berserk is seldom a good leader—he should not have divided his force. These eight must go down, friend Glumm, before the others come up, else are our days numbered.”

The expression of Glumm’s blood-stained visage spoke volumes, but his tongue uttered never a word. Indeed, there was no time for further speech, for the eight men, who had conversed hurriedly together for a few seconds, were now approaching. The two friends did not await the attack, but, setting spurs to their horses, dashed straight at them. Two were overturned in the shock, and their horses rolled on them, so that they never rose again. On the right Erling hewed down one man, and on the left his friend cut down another. They reined up, turned round, and charged again, but the four who were left were too wise to withstand the shock; they swerved aside. In doing so the foot of one of their horses caught in a bramble. He stumbled, and the rider was thrown violently against a tree and stunned, so that he could not remount. This was fortunate, for Erling and Glumm were becoming exhausted, and the three men who still opposed them were comparatively fresh. One of these suddenly charged Glumm, and killed his horse. Glumm leaped up, and, drawing his knife, stabbed the horse of the other to the heart. As it fell he caught his rider by the right wrist, and with a sudden wrench dislocated his arm. Erling meanwhile disabled one of the others, and gave the third such a severe wound that he thought it best to seek safety in flight.

Erling now turned to Glumm, and asked if he thought it would be best to ride away from the men who were still to come up, or to remain and fight them also.

“If there be five more,” said Glumm, leaning against a tree, and removing his helmet in order to wipe his brow, “then is our last battle fought, for, although I have that in me which could manage to slay one, I have not strength for two, much less three. Besides, my good steed is dead, and we have no time to catch one of the others.”

“Now will I become a berserk,” cried Erling, casting his gilt helmet on the ground and undoing the fastenings of his coat of mail. “Armour is good when a man is strong, but when he is worn out it is only an encumbrance. I counsel thee to follow my example.”

“It is not a bad one,” said Glumm, also throwing down his helmet and stripping off his armour. “Ha! there are more of them than we counted on—six.”

As he spoke six horsemen were seen approaching through the distant glades of the forest.

The two friends ran to the fountain before mentioned, slaked their thirst, and hastily bathed their heads and faces; then, seizing their swords and shields, and leaving the rest of their armour on the sward, they ran to a rugged part of the ground, where horses could not act. Mounting to the highest point of a rocky mound, they awaited the approach of their foes.

Quickly they came forward, their faces blazing with wrath as they rode over the field of battle, and saw their slaughtered comrades. Hake the berserk rode in front, and, advancing as near as possible to the place where his enemies stood, said tauntingly:

“What, are ye so fearful of only six men, after having slain so many?”

“Small meat would we make of thee and thy men, so that the crows might pick it easily, if we were only half as fresh as ye are,” said Erling; “but we chose to rest here awhile, so if ye would fight ye must come hither to us on foot.”

“Nay, but methinks it would be well for both parties,” returned the berserk, “that they should fight on level ground.”

Erling and Glumm had thrown themselves on the rocks to get as much rest as possible before the inevitable combat that was still before them. They consulted for a few seconds, and then the former replied:

“We will gladly come down, if ye will meet us on foot.”

“Agreed,” cried the berserk, leaping off his horse, and leading it to a neighbouring tree, to which he fastened it. The others followed his example. Then our two heroes arose and stretched themselves.

“It has been a good fight,” said Erling. “Men will talk of it in days to come, after we are far away in the world of spirits.”

There was deep pathos in the tone of the young warrior as he spoke these words, and cast his eyes upwards to the blue vault as if he sought to penetrate that spirit world, on the threshold of which he believed himself to stand.

“If we had but one hour’s rest, or one other man on our side; but—” He stopped suddenly, for the six men now stood in the middle of the little plain where Erling and Glumm had fought so long and so valiantly that day, and awaited their coming.

Hastily descending the mound, the two friends strode boldly towards their opponents, scorning to let them see by look or gesture that they were either fatigued or depressed. As they drew near, Erling singled out Hake, and Glumm went towards a tall, powerful man, who stood ready with a huge sword resting on his shoulder, as if eager to begin the combat. Glumm had arranged in his own mind that that man and he should die together. Beside him stood a warrior with a battle-axe, and a steel helmet on his head. Before Glumm could reach his intended victim the tall man’s sword flashed in the air like a gleam of light, and the head with the steel helmet went spinning on the ground!

“That’s the way that Kettle Flatnose pays off old scores,” cried the Irish thrall, turning suddenly upon his late friends, and assailing one of them with such fury that he cut him down in a few seconds, and then ran to draw off one of the two who had attacked Erling. Glumm’s amazement at this was, as may well be believed, excessive; but it was nothing to the intensity of his joy when he found suddenly that the fight was now equalised, and that there stood only one man to oppose him. His heart leaped up. New life gave spring to his muscles; and to these new feelings he gave vent in one loud shout, as he sprang upon his adversary and cleft him to the chin with one sweep of his sword!

Meanwhile Kettle Flatnose had killed his man; and he was about to come up behind Hake and sweep off his head, when he was seized by Glumm and dragged violently back.

“Would ye rob Erling of the honour of slaying this noted berserk?” he said sternly.

“Truly,” replied Kettle, somewhat abashed, “I did not know that he was noted; and as for the honour of it, I do think that Erling seems to have got honour enough to-day (if all this be his work) to content him for some time to come; but as ye will,” he added, putting the point of his sword on the ground, and resting his arms on the hilt.

Glumm also leaned on his sword; and standing thus, these two watched the fight.

Now, it may perhaps seem to some readers that as the other men had been disposed of so summarily, it was strange that Erling the Bold should be so long in dispatching this one; but for our hero’s credit, we must point out several facts which may have perhaps been overlooked. In the first place, Kettle Flatnose was a thoroughly fresh man when he began the fight, and although he killed two men, it must be remembered that one of these was slain while off his guard. Then, Glumm did indeed slay his man promptly, but he was one of King Harald’s ordinary men-at-arms; whereas Erling was opposed by one of the most celebrated of the King’s warriors—Hake, the berserk of Hadeland—a man whose name and prowess were known far and wide, not only in Norway, but in Denmark, and all along the southern shores of the Baltic. It would have been strange indeed had such a man fallen easily before any human arm, much more strange had he succumbed at once to one that had been already much exhausted with fighting.

True to the brotherhood to which he belonged, the berserk attacked Erling with incredible fury. He roared more like a mad bull than a man as he made the onset; his eyes glared, his mouth foamed, and he bit his shield as he was driven back. Being fresh, he danced round Erling perpetually, springing in to cut and thrust, and leaping back to avoid the terrific blows which the latter fetched at him with his weighty axe. Once he made a cut at Erling’s head, which the latter did not attempt to parry, intending to trust to his helmet to defend him, and forgetting for the moment that he had cast that useful piece of armour on the plain. Luckily the blow was not truly aimed. It shore a lock from Erling’s head as he swung his axe against his opponent’s shield, and battered him down on his knees; but the berserk leaped up with a yell, and again rushed at him. Hake happened just then to cast his eyes on the two men who were quietly looking on, and he so managed the fight for a few moments afterwards that he got near to them. Then turning towards them with a howl of demoniacal fury, he made a desperate cut at the unsuspecting Glumm, who was taken so thoroughly by surprise that he made no movement whatever to defend himself. Fortunately. Kettle Flatnose was on the alert, but he had only time to thrust his sword awkwardly between Glumm’s head and the descending weapon. The act prevented a fatal gash, but it could not altogether arrest the force of the blow, which fell on the flat of his sword, and beat it down on Glumm’s skull so violently that he was instantly stretched upon the green sward. Erling’s axe fell on the helm of the berserk almost at the same time. Even in that moment of victory a feeling of respect for the courage and boldness of this man touched the heart of Erling, who, with the swiftness of thought, put in force his favourite practice—he turned the edge of the axe, and the broad side of it fell on the steel headpiece with tremendous force, causing the berserk of Hadeland to stretch himself on the green sward beside Glumm the Gruff; thus ending the famous battle of the “Berserkers and the Bold”, in regard to which Thikskul the scald writes:—

“The Bold one and his doughty friend,
Glumm the Gruff of Horlingsend,
Faced, fought, and felled, and bravely slew,
Full twenty men—a berserk crew
Sent by King Harald them to slay—
But much he rued it—lack-a-day!
The heroes cut and hacked them sore,
Hit, split, and slashed them back and fore—
And left them lying in their gore.”

Chapter Thirteen.

Shows that Eloquence does not always flow when it is expected, and that Glumm begins a New Course of Action.

On examination it was found that Glumm’s hurt was not severe. He had merely been stunned by the force of the blow, and there was a trifling wound in the scalp from which a little blood flowed. While Kettle held a helmet full of water, and Erling bathed the wound, the latter said:

“How comes it, Kettle, that ye discovered our straits, and appeared so fortunately?”

Kettle laughed and said: “The truth is, that accident brought me here. You know that I had all but wrought out my freedom by this time, but in consideration of my services in the battle at the Springs, Ulf set me free at once, and this morning I left him to seek service with King Harald Haarfager.”

“That was thankless of thee,” said Erling.

“So said Ulf,” rejoined Kettle; “nevertheless, I came off, and was on my way over the fells to go to the King when I fell in with Hake the berserk—though I knew not that it was he—and joined him.”

Erling frowned, and looked enquiringly at Kettle as he said:

“But what possessed thee, that thou shouldst quit so good a master for one so bad, and how comes it thou hast so readily turned against the King’s men?”

“Little wonder that you are perplexed,” said Kettle, “seeing that ye know not my motive. The truth is, that I had a plan in my head, which was to enter Harald’s service, that I might act the spy on him, and so do my best for one who, all the time I have been in thraldom, has been as kind to me as if he had been my own father.”

“Thou meanest Ulf?” said Erling.

“I do,” replied Kettle with enthusiasm, “and I’d willingly die for him if need be. As ye know full well, it needs no wizard to tell that such men as Ulf and your father will not easily be made to bend their necks to the King’s yoke; and for this I honour them, because they respect the law of the land more than they respect the King. Happy is the nation where such men abound; and in saying this I do no dishonour to the King, but the reverse.”

Erling looked in surprise at Kettle, while he continued to bathe the face of his still unconscious friend, for his language and bearing were much altered from what they had been when he was in thraldom, and there was an air of quiet dignity about him, which seemed to favour the common report that he had been a man of note in his own land.

“Well,” continued Kettle, “it is equally certain that Harald is not a man who will tamely submit to be thwarted in his plans, so I had made up my mind to take service with him, in order that I might be able to find out his intentions and observe his temper towards the men of Horlingdal, and thus be in a position to give them timely warning of any danger that threatened. On my way hither I met Hake, as I have said. On hearing that he belonged to King Harald, I told him that I had just got my freedom from Ulf, and wished to join the King. He seemed very glad, and said he thought I would make a good berserk; told me that he was out in search of some of the King’s enemies, and proposed that I should assist him. Of course this suited me well; but it was only when we found you that I became aware who the King’s enemies were, and resolved to act as ye have seen me do. I did not choose to tell Ulf my intention, lest my plan should miscarry; but, now that I find who the King counts his foes, and know how sharply he intends to treat them, it seems to me that I need go no farther.”

“Truly thou needst not,” said Erling, “for Harald is in the worst possible humour with us all, and did his best to stop me from going home to tell the fact.”

“Then is my mission ended. I will return to Ulfstede,” said Kettle, throwing the water out of his helmet, and replacing it on his head, as he rose and grasped his sword. “Meanwhile, I will cut off Hake’s head, and take it back with me.”

“Thou wilt do so at thy peril,” said Erling; “Hake fell to my hand, and I will finish the work which I have begun. Do thou go catch three or four of the horses, for I see that Glumm is recovering.”

“I will not interfere with your business,” said Kettle, with a laugh, “only I thought you meant to leave his carcass lying there unheeded, and was unwilling to go off without his head as a trophy.”

Kettle went to catch the horses—three of which he tied to trees to be ready for them, while he loaded the fourth with the most valuable of the arms and garments of the slain. Meanwhile Glumm groaned, and, sitting up, rubbed his head ruefully.

“I thought someone had sent me to Valhalla,” he said, fetching a deep sigh.

“Not yet, friend Glumm, not yet. There is still work for thee to do on earth, and the sooner ye set about doing it the better, for methinks the King will wonder what has become of his berserkers, and will send out men in search of them ere long. Canst mount thy horse?”

“Mount him? aye,” said Glumm, leaping up, but staggering when he had gained his legs, so that Erling had to support him for a few minutes. He put his hand to his forehead, and, observing blood on it, asked: “Is the wound deep?”

“Only a scratch,” said Erling, “but the blow was heavy. If the sword of Kettle Flatnose had not caught it in time, it would have been thy death.”

“Truly it has not been far from that as it is, for my head rings as if the brain were being battered with Thor’s hammer! Come, let us mount.”

As he spoke, Kettle brought forward the horses. Glumm mounted with difficulty, and they all rode away. But Erling had observed a slight motion of life in the body of Hake, and after they had gone a few yards he said: “Ride on slowly, Glumm, I will go back to get a ring from the finger of the berserk, which I forgot.”

He turned, and rode quickly back to the place where the berserk’s body lay, dismounted, and kneeled beside it. There was a large silver ring on the middle finger of Hake’s right hand, which he took off and put on his own finger, replacing it with a gold one of his own. Then he ran to the spring, and, filling his helmet with water, came back and laved the man’s temples therewith, at the same time pouring a little of it into his mouth. In a few minutes he began to show symptoms of revival, but before he had recovered sufficiently to recognise who his benefactor was, Erling had vaulted into the saddle and galloped away.

They arrived at Glummstede that evening about supper-time, but Glumm was eager to hear the discussion that was sure to take place when the news of the fight and of Harald’s state of mind was told, so he rode past his own home, and accompanied his friend to Ulfstede. We cannot say for certain that he was uninfluenced by other motives, for Glumm, as the reader knows, was not a communicative man; he never spoke to anyone on the subject; we incline, however, to the belief that there were mingled ideas in his brain and mixed feelings in his heart as he rode to Ulfstede!

Great was the sensation in the hall when Erling, Glumm, and Kettle entered with the marks of the recent fight still visible upon them—especially on Glumm, whose scalp wound, being undressed, permitted a crimson stream to trickle down his face—a stream which, in his own careless way, he wiped off now and then with the sleeve of his coat, thereby making his aspect conspicuously bloody. Tremendous was the flutter in Ada’s heart when she saw him in this plight, for well did she know that deeds of daring had been done before such marks could have been left upon her gruff lover.

The hall was crowded with armed men, for many bonders had assembled to await the issue of the decision at the Thing, and much anxiety as well as excitement prevailed. Ulf recognised his late thrall with a look of surprise, but each of them was made to quaff a brimming tankard of ale before being allowed to speak. To say truth, they were very willing to accept the draught, which, after the fatigues they had undergone, tasted like nectar.

Erling then stood up, and in the midst of breathless silence began to recount the incidents which had befallen him and his companion while in the execution of their mission.

“In the first place,” he said, “it is right to let ye all know that the King’s countenance towards us is as black as a thundercloud, and that we may expect to see the lightning flash out before long. But it is some comfort to add that Glumm and Kettle and I have slain, or rendered unfit to fight, twenty of Harald’s men.”

In the midst of the murmur of congratulation with which this announcement was received, Erling observed that Hilda, who had been standing near the door, went out. The result of this was, that the poor youth’s spirit sank, and it was with the utmost difficulty he plucked up heart to relate the incidents of the fight, in which he said so little about himself that one might have imagined he had been a mere spectator. Passing from that subject as quickly as possible, he delivered his opinion as to the hopes and prospects before them, and, cutting his speech short, abruptly quitted the hall.

Any little feeling of disappointment that might have been felt at the lame way in which Erling had recounted his exploits was, however, amply compensated by Glumm, who, although usually a man of few words, had no lack of ideas or of power to express them when occasion required, in a terse, stern style of his own, which was very telling. He gave a faithful account of the fight, making mention of many incidents which his friend had omitted to touch on, and dwelling particularly on the deeds of Kettle. As to that flat-nosed individual himself, when called upon to speak, he addressed the assembly with a dignity of manner and a racy utterance of language which amazed those who had only known him as a thrall, and who now for the first time met him as a freed man. He moreover introduced into his speech a few touches of humour which convulsed his audience with laughter, and commented on the condition of affairs in a way that filled them with respect, so that from that hour he became one of the noted men of the dale.

Erling meanwhile hurried towards one of the cliffs overlooking the fiord. He was well acquainted with Hilda’s favourite haunts, and soon found her, seated on a bank, with a very disconsolate look, which, however, vanished on his appearing.

“Wherefore didst thou hasten away just as I began to speak, Hilda?” he said, somewhat reproachfully, as he sat down beside her.

“Because I did not wish to hear details of the bloody work of which thou art so fond. Why wilt thou always be seeking to slay thy fellows?”

The girl spoke in tones so sad and desponding, that her lover looked upon her for some time in silent surprise.

“Truly, Hilda,” he said, “the fight was none of my seeking.”

“Did I not hear thee say,” she replied, “that Kettle and Glumm and thou had slain twenty of the King’s men, and that ye regarded this as a comforting thought?”

“Aye, surely; but these twenty men did first attack Glumm and me while alone, and we slew them in self-defence. Never had I returned to tell it, had not stout Kettle Flatnose come to our aid.”

“Thank Heaven for that!” said Hilda, with a look of infinite relief. “How did it happen?”

“Come. I will tell thee all from first to last. And here is one who shall judge whether Glumm and I are to blame for slaying these men.”

As he spoke, the hermit approached. The old man looked somewhat paler than usual, owing to the loss of blood caused by the wound he had received in his recent defence of Ulfstede. Erling rose and saluted him heartily, for, since the memorable prowess in the defence of Ulfstede, Christian had been high in favour among the people of the neighbourhood.

“Hilda and I were considering a matter of which we will make thee judge,” said Erling, as they sat down on the bank together.

“I will do my best,” said the hermit, with a smile, “if Hilda consents to trust my judgment.”

“That she gladly does,” said the maid.

“Well, then, I will detail the facts of the case,” said Erling; “but first tell me what strange marks are those on the skin thou holdest in thy hand?”

“These are words,” said the hermit, carefully spreading out a roll of parchment, on which a few lines were written.

Erling and Hilda regarded the strange characters with much interest. Indeed, the young man’s look almost amounted to one of awe, for he had never seen the scroll before, although Hilda, to whom it had several times been shown and explained, had told him about it.

“These marks convey thoughts,” said Christian, laying his forefinger on the characters.

“Can they convey intricate thoughts,” asked Erling, “such as are difficult to express?”

“Aye; there is no thought which can quit the tongue of one man and enter the understanding of another which may not be expressed by these letters in different combinations.”

“Dim ideas of this have been in my mind,” said Erling, “since I went on viking cruise to the south, when first I heard of such a power being known to and used by many, but I believed it not. If this be as thou sayest, and these letters convey thy thoughts, then, though absent, thy thoughts might be known to me—if I did but understand the tracing of them.”

“Most true,” returned the hermit; “and more than that, there be some who, though dead, yet speak to their fellows, and will continue to do so as long as the records are preserved and the power to comprehend them be maintained.”

“Mysterious power,” said Erling; “I should like much to possess it.”

“If thou wilt come to my poor abode on the cliff I will teach it thee. A few months, or less, will suffice. Even Hilda knows the names of the separate signs, and she has applied herself to it for little more than a few days.”

Hilda’s face became scarlet when Erling looked at her in surprise, but the unobservant hermit went on to descant upon the immense value of written language, until Hilda reminded him that he had consented to sit in judgment on a knotty point.

“True, I had forgotten.—Come now, Erling, let me hear it.”

The youth at once began, and in a few minutes had so interested his hearers that they gazed in his face and hung upon his words with rapt attention, while he detailed the incidents of the combats with a degree of fluency and fervour that would have thrown the oratory of Glumm and Kettle quite into the shade had it been told in the hall.

While Erling was thus engaged, his friend Glumm, having finished the recital of his adventures for the twentieth time, and at the same time eaten a good supper, was advised by his companions to have the wound in his head looked to.

“What! hast thou not had it dressed yet?” asked Ulf; “why, that is very foolish. Knowest thou not that a neglected wound may compass thy death? Come hither, Ada; thy fingers are skilled in such offices. Take Glumm to an inner chamber, and see if thou canst put his head to rights.”

“Methinks,” cried Guttorm Stoutheart, with a laugh, “that she is more likely to put his heart wrong than his head right with these wicked black eyes of hers. Have a care, Glumm: they pierce deeper than the sword of the berserk.”

Ada pretended not to hear this, but she appeared by no means displeased, as she led Glumm to an inner chamber, whither they were followed by Alric, whose pugnacious soul had been quite fascinated by the story of the recent fight, and who was never tired of putting questions as to minute points.

As Glumm sat down on a low stool to enable Ada to get at his head, she said (for she was very proud of her lover’s prowess, and her heart chanced to be in a melting mood that night), “Thou hast done well to-day, it would seem?”

“It is well thou thinkest so,” replied Glumm curtly, remembering Erling’s advice.—“No, boy,” he added, in reply to Alric, “I did not kill the one with the black helmet; it was Erling who gave him his deathblow.”

“Did Hake the berserk look dreadfully fierce?” asked Alric.

“He made a few strange faces,” replied Glumm.

“The wound is but slight,” observed Ada, in a tone that indicated a little displeasure at the apparent indifference of her lover.

“It might have been worse,” replied Glumm.

“Do tell me all about it again,” entreated Alric.

“Not now,” said Glumm; “I’ll repeat it when Hilda is by; she has not heard it yet—methinks she would like to hear it.”

“Hilda like to hear it!” cried the lad, with a shout of laughter; “why, she detests fighting almost as much as the hermit does, though, I must say, for a man who hates it, he can do it wonderfully well himself! But do tell me, Glumm, what was the cut that Erling gave when he brought down that second man, you know—the big one—”

“Which? the man whose head he chopped off, with half of the left shoulder?”

“No; that was the fourth. I mean the other one, with—”

“Oh, the one he split the nose of by accident before battering down with—”

“No, no,” cried Alric, “I mean the one with the black beard.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Glumm, “that wasn’t the second man; his fall was much further on in the fight, just after Erling had got hold of the battle-axe. He whirled the axe round his head, brought it from over the left down on Blackbeard’s right shoulder, and split him to the waist.”

“Now, that is finished,” said Ada sharply, as she put away the things that she had used in the dressing of the wound. “I hope that every foe thou hast to deal with in future may let thee off as well.”

“I thank thee, Ada, both for the dressing and the good wish,” said Glumm gravely, as he rose and walked into the hall, followed by his persevering and insatiable little friend.

Ada retired hastily to her own chamber, where she stood for a moment motionless, then twice stamped her little foot, after which she sat down on a stool, and, covering her face with both hands, burst into a passionate flood of tears.

Chapter Fourteen.

In which Alric boasts a little, discovers Secrets, confesses a little, and distinguishes himself greatly.

Next day there was great bustle at Ulfstede, and along the shores of the fiord, for the men of Horlingdal were busy launching their ships and making preparations to go to the Springs to meet and hold council with King Harald Haarfager.

It had been finally resolved, without a dissentient voice, that the whole district should go forth to meet him in arms, and thus ensure fair play at the deliberations of the Thing. Even Haldor no longer objected; but, on the contrary, when he heard his son’s account of his meeting with the King, and of the dastardly attempt that had been made to assassinate him and his friend, there shot across his face a gleam of that wild ferocity which had procured him his title. It passed quickly away, however, and gave place to a look of sad resignation, which assured those who knew him that he regarded their chance of opposing the King successfully to be very small indeed.

The fleet that left the fiord consisted of the longships of Ulf, Haldor, Erling, Glumm, and Guttorm, besides an innumerable flotilla of smaller crafts and boats. Many of the men were well armed, not only with first-rate weapons, but with complete suits of excellent mail of the kinds peculiar to the period—such as shirts of leather, with steel rings sewed thickly over them, and others covered with steel scales—while of the poorer bonders and the thralls some wore portions of defensive armour, and some trusted to the thick hides of the wolf, which were more serviceable against a sword-cut than many people might suppose. All had shields, however, and carried either swords, bills, spears, javelins, axes, or bows and arrows, so that, numbering as they did, about a thousand men, they composed a formidable host.

While these rowed away over the fiord to the Springs to make war or peace—as the case might be—with King Harald, a disappointed spirit was left behind in Horlingdal.

“I’m sure I cannot see why I should not be allowed to go too,” said little Alric, on returning to Haldorstede, after seeing the fleet set forth. “Of course I cannot fight so well as Erling yet, but I can do something in that way; and can even face up to a full-grown man when occasion serves, as that red-haired Dane knows full well, methinks, if he has got any power of feeling in his neck!”

This was said to Herfrida, who was in the great hall spreading the board for the midday meal, and surrounded by her maidens, some of whom were engaged in spinning or carding wool, while others wove and sewed, or busied themselves about household matters.

“Have patience, my son,” said Herfrida. “Thou art not yet strong enough to go forth to battle. Doubtless, in three or four years—”

“Three or four years!” exclaimed Alric, to whom such a space of time appeared an age. “Why, there will be no more fighting left to be done at the end of three or four years. Does not father say that if the King succeeds in his illegal plans all the independence of the small kings will be gone for ever, and—and—of course I am old enough to see that if the small kings are not allowed to do as they please, there will be no more occasion for war—nothing but a dull time of constant peace!”

Herfrida laughed lightly, while her warlike son strutted up and down the ancestral hall like a bantam cock, frowning and grunting indignantly, as he brooded over the dark prospects of peace that threatened his native land, and thought of his own incapacity, on account of youth, to make glorious hay while yet the sun of war was shining.

“Mother,” he said, stopping suddenly, and crossing his arms, as he stood with his feet planted pretty wide apart, after the fashion of those who desire to be thought very resolute— “mother, I had a dream last night.”

“Tell it me, my son,” said Herfrida, sitting down on a low stool beside the lad.

Now, it must be known that in those days the Northmen believed in dreams and omens and warnings—indeed, they were altogether a very superstitious people, having perfect faith in giants, good and bad; elves, dark and bright; wraiths, and fetches, and guardian spirits—insomuch that there was scarcely one among the grown-up people who had not seen some of these fabulous creatures, or who had not seen some other people who had either seen them themselves or had seen individuals who said they had seen them! There were also many “clear-sighted” or “fore-sighted” old men and women, who not only saw goblins and supernatural appearances occasionally, and, as it were, accidentally, like ordinary folk, but who also had the gift—so it is said—of seeing such things when they pleased—enjoyed, as it were, an unenviable privilege in that way. It was therefore with unusual interest that Herfrida asked about her son’s dream.

“It must have been mara (nightmare), I think,” he said, “for though I never had it before, it seemed to me very like what Guttorm Stoutheart says he always has after eating too hearty a meal.”

“Relate it, my son.”

“Well, you must know,” said Alric, with much gravity and importance, for he observed that the girls about the room were working softly that they might hear him, “I dreamed that I was out on the fells, and there I met a dreadful wolf, as big as a horse, with two heads and three tails, or three heads and two tails, I mind not which, but it gave me little time to notice it, for, before I was aware, it dashed at me, and I turned to run, but my feet seemed to cleave to the earth, and my legs felt heavy as lead, so that I could scarce drag myself along, yet, strange to say, the wolf did not overtake me, although I heard it coming nearer and nearer every moment, and I tried to shout, but my voice would not come out.”

“What hadst thou to supper last night?” asked Herfrida.

“Let me think,” replied the boy meditatively; “I had four cuts of salmon, three rolls of bread and butter, half a wild-duck, two small bits of salt-fish, some eggs, a little milk, and a horn of ale.”

“It must have been mara,” said she, thoughtfully; “but go on with thy dream.”

“Well, just as I came to the brink of the river, I looked back and saw the wolf close at my heels, so I dropped suddenly, and the wolf tumbled right over me into the water, but next moment it came up in the shape of another monster with a fish’s tail, which made straight at me. Then it all at once came into my head that my guardian spirit was behind me, and I turned quickly round but did not see it.”

“Art thou quite sure of that, my son?”

Herfrida asked this in a tone of great anxiety, for to see one’s own guardian spirit was thought unlucky, and a sign that the person seeing it was “fey”, or death-doomed.

“I’m quite sure that I did not,” replied Alric, to the manifest relief of his mother; “but I saw a long pole on the ground, which I seized, and attacked the beast therewith, and a most notable fight we had. I only wish that it had been true, and that thou hadst been there to see it. Mara fled away at once, for I felt no more fear, but laid about me in a way that minded me of Erling. Indeed, I don’t think he could have done it better himself. Oh! how I do wish, sometimes, that my dreams would come true! However, I killed the monster at last, and hurled him into the river, after which I felt tossed about in a strange way, and then my senses left me, and then I awoke.”

“What thinkest thou of the dream?” said Herfrida to a wrinkled old crone who sat on a low stool beside the fire.

The witch-like old creature roused herself a little and said:

“Good luck is in store for the boy.”

“Thanks for that, granny,” said Alric; “canst say what sort o’ good luck it is?”

“No; my knowledge goes no further. It may be good luck in great things, it may be only in small matters; perhaps soon, perhaps a long time hence: I know not.”

Having ventured this very safe and indefinite prophecy, the old woman let her chin drop on her bosom, and recommenced the rocking to and fro which had been interrupted by the question; while Alric laughed, and, taking up a three-pronged spear, said that as he had been disappointed in going to see the fun at the Springs, he would console himself by going and sticking salmon at the foss (waterfall).

“Wilt thou not wait for midday meal?” said Herfrida.

“No, mother; this roll will suffice till night.”

“And then thou wilt come home ravening, and have mara again.”

“Be it so. I’d run the risk of that for the sake of the chance of another glorious battle such as I had last night!”

Saying this the reckless youth sallied forth with the spear or leister on his shoulder, and took the narrow bridle path leading up the glen.

It was one of those calm bright days of early autumn in which men feel that they draw in fresh life and vigour at each inhalation. With the fragrant odours that arose from innumerable wild flowers, including that sweetest of plants, the lily of the valley, was mingled the pleasant smell of the pines, which clothed the knolls, or hung here and there like eyebrows on the cliffs. The river was swollen considerably by recent heat, which had caused the great glaciers on the mountain tops to melt more rapidly than usual, and its rushing sound was mingled with the deeper roar of the foss, or waterfall, which leaped over a cliff thirty feet high about two miles up the valley. Hundreds of rills of all sizes fell and zigzagged down the mountains on either side, some of them appearing like threads of silver on the precipices, and all, river and rills, being as cold as the perpetual ice-fields above which gave them birth. Birds twittered in the bushes, adding sweetness to the wild music, and bright greens and purples, lit up by gleams of sunshine, threw a charm of softness over the somewhat rugged scene.

The Norse boy’s nature was sensitive, and peculiarly susceptible of outward influences. As he walked briskly along, casting his eager gaze now at the river which foamed below him, and anon at the distant mountain ridges capped with perennial snows, he forgot his late disappointment, or, which is the same thing, drowned it in present enjoyment. Giving vent to his delight, much as boys did a thousand years later, by violent whistling or in uproarious bursts of song, he descended to the river’s edge, with the intention of darting his salmon spear, when his eye caught sight of a woman’s skirt fluttering on one of the cliffs above. He knew that Hilda and Ada had gone up the valley together on a visit to a kinswoman, for Herfrida had spoken of expecting them back to midday meal; guessing, therefore, that it must be them, he drew back out of sight, and clambered hastily up the bank, intending to give them a surprise. He hid himself in the bushes at a jutting point which they had to pass, and from which there was a magnificent view of the valley, the fiord, and the distant sea.

He heard the voices of the two girls in animated conversation as they drew near, and distinguished the name of Glumm more than once, but, not being a gossip by nature, he thought nothing of this, and was intent only on pouncing out on them when they should reach a certain stone in the path. Truth constrains us to admit that our young friend, like many young folk of the present day, was a practical joker—yet it must also be said that he was not a very bad one, and, to his honour be it recorded, he never practised jokes on old people!

It chanced, however, that the two friends stopped short just before reaching the stone, so that Alric had to exercise patience while the girls contemplated the view—at least while Hilda did so, for on Ada’s face there was a frown, and her eyes were cast on the ground.

“How lovely Horlingdal looks on such a day!” observed Hilda.

“I have no eyes for beautiful things to-night,” said Ada pettishly; “I cannot get over it—such cool, thankless indifference when I took the trouble to dress his—his—stupid head, and then, not satisfied with telling the whole story over to thee, who cares no more for it than if it were the slaying of half a dozen sheep, he must needs go and pay frequent visits to Ingeborg and to Halgerda of the Foss—and—and— But I know it is all out of spite, and that he does not care a bodkin for either of them, yet I cannot bear it, and I won’t bear it, so he had better look to himself. And yet I would not for the best mantle in the dale that he knew I had two thoughts about the matter.”

“But why play fast and loose with him?” said Hilda, with a laugh at her companion’s vehemence.

“Because I like it and I choose to do so.”

“But perchance he does not like it, and does not choose to be treated so.”

“I care not for that.”

“Truly thy looks and tone belie thee,” said Hilda, smiling. “But in all seriousness, Ada, let me advise thee again to be more considerate with Glumm, for I sometimes think that the men who are most worth having are the most easily turned aside.”

“Hast thou found it so with Erling?” demanded Ada half-angrily.

Hilda blushed scarlet at this and said:

“I never thought of Erling in this light; at least I never—he never—that is—”

Fortunately at this point Alric, in his retreat among the bushes, also blushed scarlet, for it only then flashed upon him that he had been acting the mean part of an eavesdropper, and had been listening to converse which he should not have heard. Instead, therefore, of carrying out his original intention, he scrambled into the path with as much noise as possible, and coughed, as he came awkwardly forward.

“Why, the wicked boy has been listening,” cried Ada, laying her hand upon the lad’s shoulder, and looking sternly into his face.

“I have,” said Alric bluntly.

“And art thou not ashamed?”

“I am,” he replied, with a degree of candour in his self-condemnation which caused Ada and Hilda to burst into a hearty fit of laughter.