of pine twigs, covered with a coarse
sheet, and a bat of straw for a pillow, they fell asleep without
rocking, and slept more soundly than if they had rested on silken
bolsters filled with eiderdown. Wolf-in-the-Temple was as good as his
word, and waked them promptly at four o'clock; and their first task,
after having filled their knapsacks with provisions, was to tie
Brumle-Knute's hands and feet with the most cunning slip-knots, which
would tighten more, the more he struggled to unloose them. Ironbeard,
who had served a year before the mast, was the contriver of this daring
enterprise; and he did it so cleverly that Brumle-Knute never suspected
that his liberty was being interfered with. He snorted a little and
rubbed imaginary cobwebs from his face; but soon lapsed again into a
deep, snoring unconsciousness.

The faces of the Sons of the Vikings grew very serious as they started
out on this dangerous expedition. There was more than one of them who
would not have objected to remaining at home, but who feared to
incur the charge of cowardice if he opposed the wishes of the rest.
Wolf-in-the-Temple walked at the head of the column, as they hastened
with stealthy tread out of the saeter inclosure, and steered their
course toward the dense pine forest, the tops of which were visible
toward the east, where the mountain sloped toward the valley. He
carried his fowling-piece, loaded with shot, in his right hand, and a
powder-horn and other equipments for the chase were flung across his
shoulder. Erling the Lop-Sided was similarly armed, and Ironbeard,
glorying in a real sword, unsheathed it every minute and let it flash
in the sun. It was a great consolation to the rest of the Vikings to
see these formidable weapons; for they were not wise enough to know that
grown-up bears are not killed with shot, and that a fowling-piece is
a good deal more dangerous than no weapon at all, in the hands of an
inexperienced hunter.

The sun, who had exchanged his flaming robe de nuit for the rosy colors
of morning, was now shooting his bright shafts of light across the
mountain plain, and cheering the hearts of the Sons of the Vikings. The
air was fresh and cool; and it seemed a luxury to breathe it. It entered
the lungs in a pure, vivifying stream like an elixir of life, and sent
the blood dancing through the veins. It was impossible to mope in such
air; and Ironbeard interpreted the general mood when he struck up the
tune:

"We