ay the time pleasantly enough.

For the pair in the shadow, the moments dragged on lead-shod feet. Time
after time, Sigurd thought he heard the sounds he longed to hear, and
started toward the river,--only to come slowly back, tricked. An owl
began to call in the tree above them; and ever after, Helga connected
that sound with death and despair, and shuddered at it.

When at last the distant hum of voices crept upon them, they would not
believe it; but sat with eyes glued to the ground, though their ears
were strained. But when one of the approaching voices broke into a
rollicking drinking-song, which was caught up by the group around the
fire and tossed joyously back and forth, there could no longer be any
doubt of the matter.

Sigurd leaped up and pulled his companion to her feet, with a cheer.
"They would not sing like that if they bore heavy tidings," he assured
her. "Do not spoil matters now by a lack of caution. Stay here while I
run forward to meet them."

Then, for the first time since the failing of the blow, Helga recalled
with a flush of shame that she was a dauntless shield-maiden; and she
took hold of her composure with both hands.

Singing and shouting, the rescuers came out of the woods at last and
into the circle of firelight. On the shoulders of the two leaders sat
Tyrker, his little eyes dancing with excitement, his thin voice
squeaking comically in his attempts to pipe a German drinking-song, as
he beat time with some little dark object which he was flourishing. The
chief walked behind him with a face that was not only clear but almost
radiant. Still further back came Robert Sans-Peur, quite un-harmed and
vigorous. In the name of wonder, what had happened to them?

"It is the strangest thing that ever occurred."--"It is a miracle of
God!"--"Growing as thick as crow-berries."--"Such juice will make the
finest wine in the world!"--"Biorn Herjulfsson will dash out his brains
with envy."--"Was ever such luck as the Lucky One's?" were the
disjointed phrases that passed between them.

Waving the dark object over his head, Tyrker struggled down from his
perch. "Wunderschoen! As in the Fatherland growing! And I went not much
further than you,--only a step, and there--like snakes in the trees
gecoiled! So solid the bunches, that them your fingers you cannot
between pry. The beautiful grapes! Foster-son, for this day's work I ask
you to name this country Vine-land. Such a miracle requires that. Ach,
it