ier's weapon broke
in two, and he himself, overbalanced by the shock, fell backwards to the
ground.

Then Sigurd, with a glance of triumph, planted his foot on the body of
his prostrate foe, and prepared to avenge the delay of that hour's
combat.

The man neither struggled nor called for mercy, but looked boldly up in
his victor's face and awaited death with a smile.

The sword of Sigurd did not descend. Some passing memory, perchance, or
some soft voice breathing mercy, held it back. He drew back his foot,
and sheathing his weapon, said--

"Keep thy life, and return and serve the king thy master."

The man lay for a moment as one bewildered, then springing to his feet,
and casting from him his broken sword, he knelt and cried--

"Oh, merciful knight, to thee I owe my life, and it is thee I will serve
to the world's end!"

"Peace!" said Sigurd, sternly; "this is no time for parley. I must be
in Jockjen this night. Follow me if thou wilt thus far."

And with that he began to stride once more forward with rapid steps,
followed closely by his late adversary.

Sigurd uttered not a word, but walked with sword drawn as before,
fearing nothing save to arrive too late at Niflheim.

Once, as they neared Jockjen, two other robbers rushed out from the
woods as if to attack him, but when they perceived the stalwart champion
who followed hasten forward and place himself beside the traveller, they
refrained, and departed suddenly the way they came.

And now they were come at last to Jockjen. But when Sigurd made as
though he would enter the town, his follower hastened to overtake him,
and said--

"My knight, avoid this town, for Ulf, the king, is here, and has
commanded that no stranger enter it."

"Is Ulf here?" inquired Sigurd. "They told me he was at Niflheim."

The man looked strangely at him.

"My lord," said he, "you know what only a few know. Ulf is to be at
Niflheim."

"When?" demanded Sigurd.

"This night," said the man.

Sigurd answered nothing, but walked on quickly. The man, seeing that he
was determined to enter the town, followed cautiously and at a distance,
waiting to see what might happen.

It was evening as Sigurd entered Jockjen. The little town, overshadowed
by its grim fortress, was astir with unwonted bustle. For the king's
marriage on the morrow had brought together many of the country people,
who, though they loved not Ulf, loved a pageant, and a holiday to see it
in. And b