llads to a throng
that listened as breathlessly as leaves for a wind. The wild sweet
harp-music floated out and went with them far across the plain.

The road swerved still farther to the right, entering a wood of spicy
evergreens and silver-stemmed birches. In its green depths song-birds
held high carnival, and an occasional rabbit went scudding from hillock
to covert. From the south a road ran up and crossed theirs, on its way
to the fiord.

As they reached this cross-road, a horseman passed down it at a gallop.
He only glanced toward them; and all Alwin had time to see was that he
was young and richly dressed. But Helga started up with a cry.

"Sigurd! Tyrker, it was Sigurd!"

Slowly drawing rein, the old man blinked at her in bewilderment.
"Sigurd? Where? What Sigurd?"

"Our Sigurd--Leif's foster-son! Oh, ride after him! Shout!" She
stretched her white throat in calling, but the wind was against her.

"That is now impossible that Jarl Harald's son it should be," Tyrker
said soothingly. "On a Viking voyage he is absent. Besides, out of
breath it puts me fast to ride. Some one else have you mistaken. Three
years it has been since you have seen--"

"Then I will go myself!" She snatched the reins from Alwin, but Tyrker
caught her arm.

"Certain it is that you would be injured. If you insist, the thrall
shall go. He looks as though he would run well."

"But what message?" Alwin began.

Helga tried to stamp in her stirrups. "Will you stand there and talk?
Go!"

They were fast runners in those days, by all accounts. It is said that
there were men in Ireland and the North so swift-footed that no horse
could overtake them. In ten minutes Alwin stood at the horseman's side,
red, dripping, and furious.

The stranger was a gallant young cavalier, with floating yellow locks
and a fine high-bred face. His velvet cloak was lined with ermine, his
silk tunic seamed with gold; he had gold embroidery on his gloves,
silver spurs to his heels, and a golden chain around his neck. Alwin
glared up at him, and hated him for his splendor, and hated him for his
long silken hair.

The rider looked down in surprise at the panting thrall with the shaven
head.

"What is your errand with me?" he asked.

It was not easy to explain, but Alwin framed it curtly: "If you are
Sigurd Haraldsson, a maiden named Helga is desirous that you should turn
back."

"I am Sigurd Haraldsson," the youth assented, "but I know no maiden in
Norwa