y 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 a bow and
drawing a sword as he ran.

Forgetting that no weapon hung there now, Alwin's hand flew to his side.
Young Haraldsson, catching only the gesture, stayed him peremptorily.

"Stand back,--they were aimed at me! It is my quarrel." He threw himself
from his saddle, and his blade flashed forth like a sunbeam.

Evidently there was no need of explanations between the two. The instant
they met, that instant their swords crossed; and from the first clash,
the blades darted back and forth and up and down like governed
lightnings. Alwin threw a quieting arm around the neck of the startled
horse, and settled himself to watch.

Before many minutes, he forgot that he had been on the point of
quarrelling with Sigurd Haraldsson. Anything more deft or graceful than
the swiftness and ease with which the young noble handled his weapon he
had never imagined. Admiration crowded out every other feeling.

"I hope that he will win!" he muttered presently. "By St. George, I hope
that he will win!" and his soothing pats on the horse's neck became
frantic slaps in his excitement.

The archer was not a bad fighter, and just now he was a desperate
fighter. Round and round went the two. A dozen times they shifted their
ground; a dozen times they changed their modes of attack and defence. At
last, Sigurd's weapon itself began to change from one hand to the other.
Without abating a particle of his swiftness, in the hottest of the fray
he made a feint with his left. Before the other could recover from
parrying it, the weapon leaped back to his right, darted like a hissing
snake at the opening, and pierced the archer's shoulder.

He fell, snarling, and lay with Sigurd's point prick