at at ale, was a chamber which the thralls
used of a morning--a place which smelt of hams and meal and good
provender. There a bed had been made for him when he forsook his cot in
the women's quarters. When the door was shut it was black dark, save for
a thin crack of light from the wood fire and torches of the hall. The
crack made on the earthen floor a line like a golden river. Biorn,
cuddled up on a bench in his little bear-skin, was drawn like a moth to
that stream of light. With his heart beating fast he would creep to it
and stand for a moment with his small body bathed in the radiance.
The game was not to come back at once, but to foray into the farther
darkness before returning to the sanctuary of bed. That took all the
fortitude in Biorn's heart, and not till the thing was dared and done
could he go happily to sleep.

One night Leif the Outborn watched him at his game. Sometimes the man
was permitted to sleep there when he had been making sport for the
housecarles.

"Behold an image of life!" he had said in his queer outland speech. "We
pass from darkness to darkness with but an instant of light between. You
are born for high deeds, princeling. Many would venture from the dark to
the light, but it takes a stout breast to voyage into the farther dark."

And Biorn's small heart swelled, for he detected praise, though he did
not know what Leif meant.

In the long winter the sun never topped Sunfell, and when the gales
blew and the snow drifted there were lights in the hall the day long. In
Biorn's first recollection the winters were spent by his mother's side,
while she and her maids spun the wool of the last clipping. She was a
fair woman out of the Western Isles, all brown and golden as it seemed
to him, and her voice was softer than the hard ringing speech of
the Wick folk. She told him island stories about gentle fairies and
good-humoured elves who lived in a green windy country by summer seas,
and her air would be wistful as if she thought of her lost home. And
she sang him to sleep with crooning songs which had the sweetness of the
west wind in them. But her maids were a rougher stock, and they stuck to
the Wicking lullaby which ran something like this:

Hush thee, my bold one, a boat will I buy thee,
A boat and stout oars and a bright sword beside,
A helm of red gold and a thrall to be nigh thee,
When fair blows the wind at the next wicking-tide.

There was a second verse, but it