erself useful!"

"Aye, aye--let little Cappen go--mayhap he can sing the trolls to
sleep--" The laughter was hard and barking, edged with fear, and they
all hemmed him in.

"My lord!" bleated the minstrel. "I am your guest--"

Svearek laughed unpleasantly, half crazily. "Sing them a song," he
howled. "Make a fine roun--whatever ye call it--to the troll-wife's
beauty. And bring us some fire, little man, bring us a flame less hot
than the love in yer breast for yer lady!"

Teeth grinned through matted beards. Someone hauled on the rope from
which the ship's small boat trailed, dragging it close. "Go, ye scut!" A
horny hand sent Cappen stumbling to the rail.

He cried out once again. An ax lifted above his head. Someone handed him
his own slim sword, and for a wild moment he thought of fighting.
Useless--too many of them. He buckled on the sword and spat at the men.
The wind tossed it back in his face, and they raved with laughter.

Over the side! The boat rose to meet him, he landed in a heap on
drenched planks and looked up into the shadowy faces of the northmen.
There was a sob in his throat as he found the seat and took out the
oars.

An awkward pull sent him spinning from the ship, and then the night had
swallowed it and he was alone. Numbly, he bent to the task. Unless he
wanted to drown, there was no place to go but the island.

He was too weary and ill to be much afraid, and such fear as he had was
all of the sea. It could rise over him, gulp him down, the gray horses
would gallop over him and the long weeds would wrap him when he rolled
dead against some skerry. The soft vales of Caronne and the roses in
Croy's gardens seemed like a dream. There was only the roar and boom of
the northern sea, hiss of sleet and spindrift, crazed scream of wind, he
was alone as man had ever been and he would go down to the sharks alone.

The boat wallowed, but rode the waves better than the longship. He grew
dully aware that the storm was pushing him toward the island. It was
becoming visible, a deeper blackness harsh against the night.

He could not row much in the restless water, he shipped the oars and
waited for the gale to capsize him and fill his mouth with the sea. And
when it gurgled in his throat, what would his last thought be? Should he
dwell on the lovely image of Ydris in Seilles, she of the long bright
hair and the singing voice? But then there had been the tomboy laughter
of dark Falkny, he could not neglec