old chief ran his eye down our
wretched line, stroking his long beard as if noting our points,
while the young man seemed to have a sort of pity for us written on
his face.

"Well," said the old chief at last, "you have made a good fight, if
foolish. You shall have your chance. Which of you will join me?"

"Tell us who you are first," said Dalfin; "that is only fair."

"I am Heidrek the Seafarer, and this is Asbiorn, my son. Mayhap you
have heard of us before."

I had done so. One of the men in our group had fled to us from
Banff a year ago, after just such a raid as this. I heard him groan
as the name was spoken.

Heidrek heard also, and laughed shortly.

"It seems that I am known," he said. "Well, make your choice. The
other choice is death, of course. I can leave no one to say that I
am collecting goods from this shore."

"Kill me, then," said Dalfin, while I made no answer.

Two of our men cried that they would join him, and their bonds were
cut by Heidrek's followers. One of them set himself by my side and
spoke to me at once.

"There are worse things than going on the Viking path, Malcolm, son
of my jarl," he said earnestly. "Blame me not."

I turned my head from him. Maybe I was wrong, but it seemed like
treachery. Yet, after all, save myself there was not one left of
our line, and he was deserting no one. Both these two were single
men.

Young Asbiorn heard the man name me, and he came a pace nearer.

"So you are the son of the chief here," he said quietly. "What is
your name and rank? Will anyone ransom you?"

"I am the youngest son--I am worth nothing to any man," I said.

"He is Malcolm, the jarl's best-loved son," said that man of ours
who had asked my pardon. "Maybe his mother's folk will ransom him.
His grandfather is Melbrigda, the Scots jarl over yonder."

He pointed across the hills where the smoke hung among the heather,
and at that old Heidrek laughed, while the men at his heels
chuckled evilly. For some reason of their own, which, maybe, was
not far to seek, they were certain that Melbrigda could find ransom
for no one at this time, if he would. Asbiorn turned to our guest,
seeing, no doubt, that he was not of the house carles. The great
gold torque on his neck seemed to shine all the more brightly by
reason of the blackened mail and cloak that half hid it.

"My name?" said Dalfin, with a flash of pride in his gray eyes. "It
is Dalfin, prince of Maghera, in Ireland, of the line