their hands over his mouth, and pointed at the
approaching boat.

"Look!"--"Look there!"--"It is a king's son!" they cried. And then it
was that their hungry teeth closed upon their morsel of excitement.

In the bow of the boat, shining like a jewel against the dark background
of the trader's dun mantle, stood a most splendidly arrayed young
warrior. The fading sunbeams that played on his gilded helm revealed
shining armor and a golden cross embossed upon a gold-rimmed shield.
Still nearer, and it could be seen that his cloak was of crimson velvet
lined with sables, and that gold-embroideries and jewelled clasps
flashed with every motion.

Buzzing with curiosity, they crowded down to the water's edge to meet
him. The keel bit the sand; he stepped ashore into their very midst, and
even that close scrutiny did not lessen his attractions. His
olive-tinted face was haughtily handsome; his fine black hair fell upon
his shoulders in long silken curls; he was tall and straight and supple,
and his bearing was bold and proud as an eagle's.

"He is well fitted to be a king's son," they repeated one to another.
And those in front respectfully gave way before him, while those behind
fell over one another to get near in case he should speak,--and Leif
himself paused in his greeting of Arnor Gunnarsson to look at the
stranger curiously.

The youth stood running his eyes over the faces of those around him,
until his gaze fell upon Sigurd Haraldsson. He uttered a loud
exclamation, and sprang forward with outstretched hand.

Sigurd's cheeks, which had been looking rather pale, suddenly became
very red; and he leaped from his horse and started forward. Then he
wavered, stopped, and hesitated, staring.

"_Mon ami_!" said the stranger, in some odd heathen tongue very
different from good plain Norse. "_Mon ami_!" He took another step
forward, and this time their palms met.

The spectators who were watching Sigurd Haraldsson, whispered that the
young warrior must be the last man on earth that he expected to see in
Greenland, and also the man that he loved the best of all his sworn
brothers. The fair-haired jarl's son and he of the raven locks stood
grasping each other's hands and looking into each other's eyes as though
they had forgotten there was anyone else in the world.

"He looks to be a man to be bold in the presence of chiefs, does he
not?" the trader observed to Leif Ericsson, regarding the pair
benevolently as he stood t