oyhood; but
last summer, on the dairy farm of Gilli of Trondhjem, I practised on
sheep-skins--"

"Gilli of Trondhjem?" Leif repeated. He sat suddenly erect, and shot a
glance at the unconscious Helga; and the old German, peering from the
shadows behind him, did the same.

Alwin regarded them wonderingly. "Yes, Gilli the trader, whom men call
the Wealthy. It was he who first had me in my captivity."

For a long time the chief sat tugging thoughtfully at his yellow
mustache. Tyrker bent over and whispered in his ear; and he nodded
slowly, with another glance at Helga.

"But for this I should never have thought of him,--yet, it is certainly
one way out of the matter."

Suddenly he made a motion with his hand, so that the circle fell back
out of hearing. He turned and fixed his piercing eyes on the thrall as
though he would probe his brain.

"I ask you to tell me what manner of man this Gilli is?"

It happened that Alwin asked nothing better than a chance to free his
mind. He answered instantly: "Gilli of Trondhjem is a low-minded man who
has gained great wealth, and is so greedy for property that he would
give the nails off his hands and the tongue out of his head to get it.
He is an overbearing churl."

Leif's eyes challenged him, but he did not recant.

"So!" said the chief abruptly; then he added: "I am told for certain
that his wife is a well-disposed woman."

"I say nothing against that," Alwin assented. "She is from England,
where women are taught to bear themselves gently."

His eulogy was cut short by an exclamation from the old German.
"Donnerwetter! That is true! An English captive she was. Perhaps she
their runes also understands?"

Finding this a question addressed to him, Alwin answered that he knew
her to understand them, having heard her read from a book of Saxon
prayers.

Tyrker rolled up his eyes devoutly. "Heaven itself it is that so has
ordered it for the shield-maiden! You see, my son? This youth here can
make runes,-she can read them; so can you speak with her without that
the father shall know."

"Bring torches into the sleeping-house," Leif called, rising hastily.
"Valbrand, take your horse and lay saddle on it. You of England, get
bark and an arrow-point, or whatever will serve for rune writing, and
follow me."

What took place behind the log walls, no one knew. When it was over, and
Valbrand had ridden away in the darkness, Rolf sought out the scribe and
gently gave him to unde