It is not as though I had
enticed her from Norway--"

A confusing recollection brought him suddenly to a halt, the blood
tingling in his cheeks. He knew that the eyes above the brown hand had
become piercing, but there were many reasons why he did not care to meet
them. After a moment's hesitation, he frankly abandoned that tack and
tried a new one. Dropping on one knee to wipe his berry-stained hand in
the grass, he looked up with his gay smile. "There is yet another reason
why you should allow me my way, foster-father. Upon the one occasion
when I did accompany the party, the discovery was made of those fields
of self-sown wheat which you prize so highly. Since then I have remained
at home, and nothing of value has come to light. Who knows what you
might not find this time, if you would but take my luck along with you?"

Leif pushed the cub aside and rose to his feet, the strengthening savor
of broiled salmon announcing the imminent approach of the morning meal.

"Although I cannot say that I consider that an argument which would win
you a case before a law-man," he observed, "yet I will not be so stark
as to punish you further. Take your chance with the rovers if you will;
though it is not likely that you will have time both to eat your food
and to make yourself ready."

Sigurd was already gone on a bound.

"It will not take me long to choose between the two," he called back
joyously, over his shoulder.

While the rest feasted noisily at the long table before the provision
sheds, the Silver-Tongued hurried between sleeping house and store-room,
rummaging out his heaviest boots, his stoutest tunic, his oldest mantle.
At the last moment, the edge on his knife was found to be
unsatisfactory, and he went and sat down by one of the cook-fires and
fell to work with a sharpening stone.

On the other side of the fire Kark sat cross-legged upon the ground,
skinning rabbits from a heap that had just been brought in by the
trappers. He looked up with an impudent grin.

"It is a good thing if your fortunes have mended at last, Sigurd
Jarlsson. It did not appear that the Norman brought you much luck in
return for your support." He glanced toward that part of the table where
the black locks of Robert the Fearless shone, sleek as a blackbird's
wing, in the morning sun. "The Southerner has an overbearing face," he
added. "It reminds me of someone I hate, though I cannot think who."

Sigurd's fiery impulse to cuff him was