preciated,
applauded, and approved them. They cheered and shouted "Hear, hear,"
after their own fashion, and then the whole band rushed back into the
mountain gorge,--doubtless with the intent to gorge themselves with raw
blubber, prepare their weapons, and snatch a little repose before
issuing forth to battle.

But let us return to the Norsemen, over whose innocent heads such awful
prospects were impending.

The sturdy man with the fair shaggy locks was Leif, the son of Eric the
Red of Iceland. The boy with the silken curls, who rode on his foot so
joyously, was his son Olaf.

Eric had died several years before the date on which our tale opens, and
Leif inherited his cottage and property at Brattalid in Ericsfiord, on
the west coast of Greenland--the hamlet which we have already described.

"Come now, Olaf," said Leif, flinging the child from his foot to his
knee, and thence to the ground, "give me your hand; we shall go see how
the boats and nets get on.--Hey! there goes a puff of wind. We shall
have more presently." He paused and scanned the seaward horizon with
that intent abstracted gaze which is peculiar to seafaring men. So long
did he gaze, and so earnestly, that the child looked up in his face with
an expression of surprise, and then at the horizon, where a dark blue
line indicated the approach of a breeze.

"What do you see, father?" asked Olaf.

"Methinks I see two ships," replied Leif.

At this there came a sweet musical voice from the cottage:--"Ships,
brother! Did I not tell you that I had a dream about two ships, and
said I not that I was sure something was going to happen?"

The speaker appeared in the doorway, drying her hands and arms on a
towel,--for she had been washing dishes. She was a fair comely young
woman, with exceedingly deep blue eyes, and a bright colour in her
cheeks,--for women of the richer class were remarkably healthy and
well-made in those days. They did a great deal of hard work with their
hands, hence their arms were strong and well developed without losing
anything of their elegance.

"You are always dreaming, widow Gudrid," said Leif, with a quiet
smile,--for he was no believer in dreams or superstitions, in which
respect he differed much from the men and women of his time;
"nevertheless, I am bound to admit that you did tell me that `something'
was going to happen, and no one can deny that something _is_ about to
occur just now. But your dream happened a month