wisting his long yellow mustache. "He said to
me that the jarl's son was his friend; it is great luck that he should
find him so soon. He is somewhat haughty-minded, as is the wont of
Normans, but he is free with his gold." And the thrifty merchant patted
his money-bag absently.

The crowd circulated the news in excited whispers. "He is a friend of
Sigurd Haraldsson."--"He is a Norman."--"That accounts for the
swarthiness of his skin."--"Is it in the Norman tongue that they are
speaking?"--"Normandy? Is that the land Rolf the Ganger laid under his
sword?"--"Hush! Sigurd is leading him to the chief."--"Now we shall
learn what his errand is."

And the boldest of them pushed almost within whip-range of the pair.

But there was no difficulty about hearing, for Sigurd spoke out in a
loud clear voice: "Foster-father, I wish to make known to you my friend
and comrade who has just now arrived on the Eastman's vessel. He is
called Robert Sans-Peur, because his courage is such as is seldom found.
I got great kindness from his kin when I was in Normandy."

The Norman said nothing, but he did what the bystanders considered
rather surprising in a knee-crooking Frenchman. Neither bending his body
nor doffing his helmet, he folded his arms across his breast and looked
straight into the Lucky One's eyes.

"As though," one fellow muttered, "as though he would read in the
chief's very face whether or not it was his intention to be friendly!"

"Hush!" his neighbor interrupted him. "Leif is drawing off his glove. It
may be that he is going to honor him for his boldness."

And so indeed it proved. In another moment, the chief had extended his
bare hand to the haughty Southerner.

"I have an honorable greeting for all brave men, even though they be
friendless," he said, with lofty courtesy. "How much warmer then is the
state of my feelings toward one who is also a friend of Sigurd
Haraldsson? Be welcome, Robert Sans-Peur. The best that Brattahlid has
to offer shall not be thought too good for you."

Whether or not he could speak it, it was evident that the Fearless One
understood the Northern tongue. His haughtiness passed from him like a
shadow. Uncovering his raven locks, he bowed low,--and would have set
his lips to the extended hand if the chief, foreseeing his danger, had
not saved himself by dexterously withdrawing it.

Sigurd, still flushed and nervous, spoke again: "You have taken this so
well, foster-father, that it is in