. Occasionally Rolf quietly saluted some young
guardsman; and, to the thrall's surprise, the warrior answered not only
with friendliness but even with respect. It seemed strange that one of
Rolf's mild aspect should be held in any particular esteem by such young
fire-eaters. Once they encountered a half-tipsy seaman, who made a
snatch at Rolf's apple, and succeeded in knocking it from his hand into
the dust. The Wrestler only fixed his blue eyes upon him in a long look,
but the man went down on his knees as though he had been hit.

"I did not know it was you, Rolf Erlingsson," he hiccoughed over and
over in maudlin terror. "I beg you not to be angry."

"It is seldom that I have seen such a coward as that," Alwin said in
disgust as they walked on.

Rolf turned upon him his gentle smile. "It is your opinion, then, that a
man must be a coward to fear me?"

Alwin did not answer immediately: of a sudden it occurred to him to
doubt the Wrestler's mild manner.

While he was still hesitating, Rolf caught him lightly around the waist
and swung him over a hedge into a field where a dozen red-and-yellow
tented booths were clustered. "These are Thorgrim Svensson's tents," he
explained, following as coolly as though that were the accepted mode of
entrance. "Yonder he is,--that lean little man with the freckled face.
He is a great seafaring man. I promise you that you will see many
precious things from all over the world."

Approaching the booths, Alwin had immediate proof of this statement, for
bench and bush and ground were littered with garments and furs and
weapons, and odds-and-ends of spoil, as if a ship had been overturned on
the spot. The lean little man whom Rolf had pointed out stood in the
midst of it all, examining and directing. He was dressed in coarse
homespun of the dingy colors of trading vessels, gray and brown and
rusty black, which contrasted oddly with the mantle of gorgeous purple
velvet he was at that moment trying on. His little freckled face was
wrinkled into a hundred shrewd puckers, and his eyes were two twinkling
pin-points of sharpness. He seemed to thrust their glance into Alwin, as
he advanced to meet his visitors; and the men who were helping him
paused and looked at the thrall with expectant grins.

Rolf said blandly, "Greeting, Thorgrim Svensson! We have come to see
your horse-fight. This is Alwin, Edmund Jarl's son, of England. Bad luck
has made him Leif's thrall, but his accomplishments have