nly, "what is life without
honor?"

There was not a soul present who could answer that conundrum, and after
a fitting pause the chief was forced to answer it himself.

"Life without honor, comrades," he said, severely, "life--without honor
is--nothing."

"Hear, hear!" cried Ironbeard; "good for you, old man!"

"Silence!" thundered Wolf-in-the-Temple, "I must beg the gentlemen to
observe the proprieties."

This tremendous phrase rarely failed to restore order, and the flippant
Ironbeard was duly rebuked by the glances of displeasure which met him
on all sides. But in the meanwhile the chief had lost the thread of his
speech and could not recover it. "Vikings," he resumed, clearing his
throat vehemently, "we have been--that is to say--we have sustained----"

"A thrashing," supplied the innocent Skull-Splitter.

But the awful stare which was fixed upon him convinced him that he
had made a mistake; and he shrunk into an abashed silence. "We must do
something to retrieve our honor," continued the chief, earnestly; "we
must--take steps--to to get upon our legs again," he finished, blushing
with embarrassment.

"I would suggest that we get upon our legs first, and take the steps
afterward," remarked the flippant Ironbeard, with a sly wink at Thore
the Hound.

The chief held it to be beneath his dignity to notice this interruption,
and after having gazed for a while in silence at the blood-red mountain
peaks, he continued, more at his ease:

"I propose, comrades, that we go on a bear hunt. Then, when we return
with a bear-skin or two, our honor will be all right; no one will dare
laugh at us. The brave boy-hunters will be the admiration and pride of
the whole valley."

"But Brummle-Knute," observed the Skull-Splitter; "do you think he will
allow us to go bear-hunting?"

"What do we care whether he allows us or not?" cried Wolf-in-the-Temple,
scornfully; "he sleeps like a log; and I propose that we tie his hands
and feet before we start."

This suggestion met with enthusiastic approval, and all the boys laughed
heartily at the idea of Brumle-Knute waking up and finding himself tied
with ropes, like a calf that is carried to market.

"Now, comrades," commanded the chief, with a flourish of his sword, "get
to bed quickly. I'll call you at four o'clock; we'll then start to chase
the monarch of the mountains."

The Sons of the Vikings scrambled into their bunks with great despatch;
and though their beds consisted