Kark will also return some
time."--"Yes, return and cook us some food."--"We are becoming hollow as
bubbles."

Rolf accepted their greetings with an easy flourish.

"You will become also as thin as bubbles if you wait for Kark to cook
your food," he answered, lightly. "I bring the chief the bad tidings
that he has lost his thrall." Pushing his companion gently aside, he
walked over to where the Lucky One sat. "It will sound like an old
woman's tale to you, chief," he warned him; "yet this is nothing but the
truth."

While the skin-pullers abandoned their contest and dropped cross-legged
upon the hide to listen, and the outlying circle picked up its drinking
horns and crept closer, he related the whole experience, simply and
quite truthfully, from beginning to end.

From all sides, exclamations of amazement and horror broke out when he
had finished. Only the chief sat regarding him in silence, a skeptical
pucker lifting the corner of his mouth.

Leif said finally, "Truth came from your mouth when you foretold that
this would appear to me as strange as the tales old women tell. Until
within the last month we have passed through that district almost daily;
and never yet have we found aught betokening the presence of human
beings. That they should thus appear to you--"

"They came like the monsters in a dream, and vanished like them," Rolf
declared.

"Saving in the fact that dream monsters do not leave mangled bodies
behind them," Leif reminded him; and his eyes narrowed with an
unpleasant shrewdness. "Rolf Erlingsson," he advised, "confess that they
are the dreams you liken them to. That Kark was no favorite with you or
your friend"--he nodded toward the Norman--"was seen by everybody.
Confess that it was by the sword of one of you that the thrall met his
death."

For once the Wrestler's face lost its gentleness. His huge frame
stiffened haughtily, as he drew himself up.

"Leif Ericsson," he returned, fiercely, "when--for love of good or fear
of ill--have you ever known me to lie?"

The chief looked at him incredulously.

"You will swear to the truth of the tale?"

"I will swear to its truth by my knife, by my soul, by the crucifix you
wear on your breast."

After a moment, Leif arose and extended his hand. "In that case, I would
believe a statement that was twice as unlikely," he said, with honorable
frankness. And a sound of applause went around as their hands clasped.

From the spot where the Norman h