t you have never
put forth a hand to help me?" he thundered.

Across the fire, Helga, Gilli's daughter, held herself down upon the
bench with both hands. But though his lips were twisted with pain, the
rune-writer met Leif's gaze unflinchingly.

"Help you, chief?" he repeated, wonderingly. "How was I to know that
Norman writing would be of assistance to you? When did you ever tell me
of your need?"

Though his gaze continued to hold the Norman for awhile, Leif's grip on
his shoulder slowly relaxed. Then, gradually, his eyes also loosened
their hold. Finally he burst into a loud laugh and slapped him on the
back.

"By the edge of my sword, your wit is as nimble as a rabbit!" he swore.
"I cannot blame you for this. At least you lost little time in coming to
my support as soon as I had told my need. By the Mass, Robert Sans-Peur,
you could not have brought your accomplishment to a better market! I
tell you frankly that it is of more value to me than any warrior's skill
in the world, and I am not too stingy to pay what it is worth."

Unclasping the gold chain from his neck, he threw it over the Norman's
head.

"Take this to begin with, Robert of Normandy," he said, with grave
courtesy. "And I promise you that, if your help proves to be as great as
I expect, there will be little that you can ask that I shall not be glad
to give."

Decked in the shining gold of his triumph, the masquerading thrall stood
with bent head, a look that was almost shame-stricken stealing over his
face. But it is probable that the chief feared that he meditated another
attempt at hand kissing, for that brusque commander began to speak
quickly and curtly of purely unsentimental matters.

"I have none of the kid-skin of which your Southern books are made. Yet
will not a roll of fresh white vadmal offer a fair substitute? And
certainly there is enough wine--"

There certainly was enough, and more; yet at this suggestion an
indignant murmur could not be suppressed.

"Though I never dispute your wisdom in anything, that appears to me to
be little better than desecration," Valbrand declared, frankly.

With an effort the Norman roused himself. "It will not be necessary," he
said, absently. "I know how to make a liquid out of barks that will have
a dark color and suffer no damage from water."

He did not notice the expression that flared up in Kark's eyes; nor did
he hear Helga's gasp, nor feel Sigurd's foot. His gaze fell again to the
floor