cooled by a sudden frost. He said
as carelessly as possible: "You are a churlish fool; but it is likely
you have seen Robert Sans-Peur in Nidaros. He was there shortly before
we came away."

The thrall assented with a nod, but his interest seemed to have taken
another turn, for after a while he said absently: "You will call me fool
again when I tell you who the Norman made me think of at first. No other
than that pig-headed English thrall that Leif killed last winter,--if it
were not that one is black and the other was white, and one is living
and the other dead."

He commenced to grin over his work, a veritable image of malice, quite
unconscious that Sigurd's eyes were blazing down upon his head. By and
by he broke into a discordant roar.

"Too great fun is it to keep silent over! What can it matter, now that
Hot-Head is dead? Ah, that was a fine revenge!" He squinted boldly up
into Sigurd's face, though he did not raise his voice to be heard
beyond. "Did you know that it was not Thorhall the steward who found the
knife that betrayed the English-man? Did you dream of that, Jarl's son?
Did you know that it was I who followed you out of the hall that night,
and listened to you from the shadows, and followed your trail the next
sunrise, until I came upon the knife at Skroppa's very door? You never
suspected that, Jarl's son. I was too cunning to let you put your teeth
into me. Thorhall you could do no harm--"

"Wretched spy! Do you boast of your deed?" the young Viking interrupted
hotly. "What is to hinder my biting now?" He had leaped the flames, and
his hand was on the other's throat before he finished speaking.

But the thrall fought him off with unusual boldness.

"It is unadvisable for you to injure Leif's property, Sigurd
Haraldsson," he panted. "My life is of value to him now. You are not yet
out of disgrace. It would be unadvisable for you to offend him again."

However contemptible its present mouthpiece, that was the truth. Sigurd
paused, even while his fingers twitched with passion. While he
hesitated, a shout of summons from Valbrand decided the matter.
Loosening his hold, the young warrior vented his rage in one savage kick
and hastened to join his comrades.

Twelve brawny Vikings with twelve short swords at their sides and twelve
long knives in their belts, they stood forth, headed by Valbrand of the
Flint-Face and--by Tyrker! The little German had left off the longest of
his fur tunics; a very long