e idling here." And he sighed heavily as Helga passed out of hearing.

As she went by the largest of the booths, which was the sleeping-house
of the steersman Valbrand and more than half the crew, Alwin came out of
the door and stood looking listlessly about. He had spent the afternoon
scouring helmets amid a babble of directions and fault-finding, accented
by blows. Helga did not see him; but he gazed after her, wondering idly
what sort of a mistress she was to the young bond-girl who was running
after her with the cloak she had forgotten,--wondering also what there
was in the girl's brown braids that reminded him of his mother's little
Saxon waiting-maid Editha.

The sound of a deep-drawn breath made him turn, to find himself face to
face with a young mail-clad Viking, in whose shaggy black locks he
recognized the Egil Olafsson whom Helga had that morning 'pointed out.
But it was not the surprise of the meeting that made Alwin leap suddenly
backward into the shelter of the doorway; it was the look that he caught
in the other's dark face,--a look so full of hate and menace that,
instead of being strangers meeting for the first time, one would have
supposed them lifelong enemies.

Still eying him, Egil said slowly in a voice that trembled with passion:
"So you are the English thrall,--and looking after her already! It seems
that Skroppa spoke some truth--" He broke off abruptly, and stood
glaring, his hand moving upward to his belt.

For once Alwin was fairly dazed. "Either this fellow has gotten out of
his wits," he muttered, crossing himself, "or else he has mistaken me
for some--"

He had not time to finish his sentence. Young Olafsson's fingers had
closed upon the haft of his knife; he drew it with a fierce cry: "But I
will make the rest of it a lie!" Throwing himself upon Alwin, he bore
him over backwards across the threshold.

It is likely that that moment would have seen the end of Alwin, if it
had not happened that Valbrand the steersman was in the booth, arraying
himself for the feast. He was a gigantic warrior, with a face seamed
with scars and as hard as the battle-axe at his side. He caught Egil's
uplifted arm and wrested the blade from his grasp.

"It is not likely that I will allow Leif's property to be damaged, Egil
the Black. Would you choke him? Loose him, or I will send you to the
Troll, body and bones!"

Egil rose reluctantly. Alwin leaped up like a spring released from a
weight.

"What has