The Thrall of Leif the Lucky | Page 6

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

CHAPTER III
A GALLANT OUTLAW
Two are adversaries; The tongue is the bane of the head; Under every
cloak I expect a hand. Ha'vama'l
For a while the road of the little party ran beside the brawling Nid,
whose shores were astir with activity and life. Here was a school of
splashing swimmers; there, a fleet of fishing-smacks; a provision-ship
loading for a cruise as consort to one of the great war vessels. They
passed King Olaf's ship-sheds, where fine new boats were building, and
one brilliantly-painted cruiser stood on the rollers all ready for the

launching. Along the opposite bank lay the camps of visiting Vikings,
with their long ships'-boats floating before them.
The road bent to the right, and wound along between the high fences
that shut in the old farm-like manors. Ail the houses had their
gable-ends faced to the front, like soldiers at drill, and little more than
their tarred roofs showed among the trees. Most of the commons
between the estates were enlivened by groups of gaily-ornamented
booths. Many of them were traders' stalls; but in one, over the heads of
the laughing crowd, Alwin caught a glimpse of an acrobat and a clumsy
dancing bear; while in another, a minstrel sang plaintive love ballads to
a throng that listened as breathlessly as leaves for a wind. The wild
sweet harp-music floated out and went with them far across the plain.
The road swerved still farther to the right, entering a wood of spicy
evergreens and silver-stemmed birches. In its green depths song-birds
held high carnival, and an occasional rabbit went scudding from hillock
to covert. From the south a road ran up and crossed theirs, on its way to
the fiord.
As they reached this cross-road, a horseman passed down it at a gallop.
He only glanced toward them; and all Alwin had time to see was that
he was young and richly dressed. But Helga started up with a cry.
"Sigurd! Tyrker, it was Sigurd!"
Slowly drawing rein, the old man blinked at her in bewilderment.
"Sigurd? Where? What Sigurd?"
"Our Sigurd--Leif's foster-son! Oh, ride after him! Shout!" She
stretched her white throat in calling, but the wind was against her.
"That is now impossible that Jarl Harald's son it should be," Tyrker said
soothingly. "On a Viking voyage he is absent. Besides, out of breath it
puts me fast to ride. Some one else have you mistaken. Three years it
has been since you have seen--"
"Then I will go myself!" She snatched the reins from Alwin, but Tyrker

caught her arm.
"Certain it is that you would be injured. If you insist, the thrall shall go.
He looks as though he would run well."
"But what message?" Alwin began.
Helga tried to stamp in her stirrups. "Will you stand there and talk?
Go!"
They were fast runners in those days, by all accounts. It is said that
there were men in Ireland and the North so swift-footed that no horse
could overtake them. In ten minutes Alwin stood at the horseman's side,
red, dripping, and furious.
The stranger was a gallant young cavalier, with floating yellow locks
and a fine high-bred face. His velvet cloak was lined with ermine, his
silk tunic seamed with gold; he had gold embroidery on his gloves,
silver spurs to his heels, and a golden chain around his neck. Alwin
glared up at him, and hated him for his splendor, and hated him for his
long silken hair.
The rider looked down in surprise at the panting thrall with the shaven
head.
"What is your errand with me?" he asked.
It was not easy to explain, but Alwin framed it curtly: "If you are
Sigurd Haraldsson, a maiden named Helga is desirous that you should
turn back."
"I am Sigurd Haraldsson," the youth assented, "but I know no maiden
in Norway named Helga."
It occurred to Alwin that this Helga might belong to "the pack from
Greenland," but he kept a surly silence.
"What is the rest of her name?"

"If there is more, I have not heard it."
"Where does she live?"
"The devil knows!"
"Are you her father's thrall?"
"It is my bad luck to be the captive of some Norse robber."
The straight brows of the young noble slanted into a frown. Alwin met
it with a black scowl. Suddenly, while they faced each other, glowering,
an arrow sped out of the thicket a little way down the road, and
whizzed between them. A second shaft just grazed Alwin's head; a third
carried away a tress of Sigurd's fair hair. Instantly after, a man crashed
out of the underbrush and came running toward them, throwing down