y be some gathering
to rescue Arnkel, for all the quiet."

He laughed again, and his laugh was hard.

"There will be none," he said, and pointed.

The mast of the ship had been stepped again, but the sail was still
on deck. Only a spare yard had been hoisted half-mast high across
the ship. And at the outboard end of it swung, black against the
red fires of the sky, the body of the man who had wrought the
trouble. He had found the death which he deserved.

"Hakon's word," said Asbiorn quietly. "You mind what he said."

I remembered, and it came to me that Asbiorn had done right. I do
not know what else could have been done with such a man. And in
this matter neither I nor Gerda had any hand.

"The townsfolk judged him," said Asbiorn again, "and we did Hakon's
bidding. Else they had hewn him in pieces."

Suddenly the red wildfires sank, and it was very dark. In the
darkness there came from seaward a sound which swelled up, nearer
and nearer, as it were the cry of some mighty pack of hounds, and
with the wild baying, the yell of hunters and the clang of their
horns. It swept over us, and passed toward the mountains while we
stood motionless, listening.

"It is the wild hunt," said old Gorm, gripping my arm. "It is Odin
who chases the wraith of Arnkel hence."

But Phelim looked up to where against the dark cliff the cross
stood out bright above the hall.

"If it is Odin," he said, "he flies before the might of yonder
sign. This place is his no longer."

The others did not heed him, but I would that what he said was the
very truth. I had ever heard that one who died as did Arnkel was
the quarry of Odin's hunters for evermore, and the sounds scared
me.

The clamour of that wild hunt died away, and we breathed more
freely. Soon the wild lights burned up across the north again, and
then Bertric spoke.

"Sink yonder thing in the fjord, Asbiorn. Gerda should not see it
thus."

Therewith we went back to the guest hall, and there was naught to
disturb the quiet of the night. Asbiorn saw to that matter
straightway.

Men say now that when the northern fires light the sky, across the
fjord drifts the wraith of Arnkel, and that ever the wild hunt
comes up from the sea and hounds him hence. I have heard the bay of
those terrible hounds more than once indeed, but I have seen
naught, and round our hall is no unrest.

In the sunshine of next day Gerda would hear what had become of
Arnkel, supposing that he was kept