ellow! noble dog! what shall I do to help you?" and he gently smoothed
the dark brindled head.

A voice was now heard shouting aloud, at which the dog raised and crested
his head, as a figure in a hunting dress was coming down a rocky pathway,
an extremely tall, well-made man, of noble features. "Ha! holla! Vige!
Vige! How now, my brave hound?" he said in the Northern tongue, though
not quite with the accent Richard was accustomed to hear "Art hurt?"

"Much torn, I fear," Richard called out, as the faithful creature wagged
his tail, and strove to rise and meet his master.

"Ha, lad! what art thou?" exclaimed the hunter, amazed at seeing the boy
between the dead wolf and wounded dog. "You look like one of those
Frenchified Norman gentilesse, with your smooth locks and gilded
baldrick, yet your words are Norse. By the hammer of Thor! that is a
dagger in the wolf's throat!"

"It is mine," said Richard. "I found your dog nearly spent, and I made
in to the rescue."

"You did? Well done! I would not have lost Vige for all the plunder of
Italy. I am beholden to you, my brave young lad," said the stranger, all
the time examining and caressing the hound. "What is your name? You
cannot be Southern bred?"

As he spoke, more shouts came near; and the Baron de Centeville rushed
through the trees holding Richard's pony by the bridle. "My Lord, my
Lord!--oh, thank Heaven, I see you safe!" At the same moment a party of
hunters also approached by the path, and at the head of them Bernard the
Dane.

"Ha!" exclaimed he, "what do I see? My young Lord! what brought you
here?" And with a hasty obeisance, Bernard took Richard's outstretched
hand.

"I came hither to attend your council," replied Richard. "I have a boon
to ask of the King of Denmark."

"Any boon the King of Denmark has in his power will be yours," said the
dog's master, slapping his hand on the little Duke's shoulder, with a
rude, hearty familiarity, that took him by surprise; and he looked up
with a shade of offence, till, on a sudden flash of perception, he took
off his cap, exclaiming, "King Harald himself! Pardon me, Sir King!"

"Pardon, Jarl Richart! What would you have me pardon?--your saving the
life of Vige here? No French politeness for me. Tell me your boon, and
it is yours. Shall I take you a voyage, and harry the fat monks of
Ireland?"

Richard recoiled a little from his new friend.

"Oh, ha! I forgot. They have made a Christian