word was fresh and enthralling to him.

"Yet it is a thing to be wondered at," she said finally, "that you,
David, know not these old histories better than I do; for I have
often heard that no one in all the islands could tell a story so
well as Liot Borson. Yes, and the minister once said, and I heard
him, that he would walk ten miles to hear from your father's lips
once more the sad happenings of his ancestor, the brave, helpful
Gisli."

"This is a great thing to me, Nanna," answered David, in a voice
low and quiet, for he was feeling deeply. "And I look to you now
for what has never been told me. Who, then, was my ancestor Gisli?"

"If your father held his peace about him, he surely thought it best
to do so, and so ask me not to break a good resolve."

"Nay, but I must ask you. My heart burns; I feel that there is a life
behind me into which I must look. Help me, Nanna. And, more, the
name Gisli went to my head. It is not like other strange names. I
love this man whom I have not seen and never heard of until this
hour. What has he to do with me?"

"_He was one of us._ And because he was so good and great the
thrall's curse fell the harder on him, and was the more
regarded--hard enough it has been on all the Borsons; and perhaps
your father thought it was well you heard not of it. Many a time
and oft I have wished it had not entered my ears; for when one sorrow
called to another sorrow, and one wrong trod on the heels of
another wrong, I have been angry at the false, ungrateful man
who brought such ill fortune upon his unborn generations."

"Now you make me so anxious and wilful that nothing but the story
of the thrall's curse will do for me. I shall not eat or sleep till
I hear it."

"'Tis a tale of dishonor and unthankfulness, and not so well known
to me as to Jorn Thorkel. He can tell it all, and will gladly do so."

"But for all that, I will hear it from you, Nanna, and you only, for
it concerns us only. Tell me what you know, and the rest can wait
for Jorn."

"So, then, you will have it; but if ill comes of the knowledge do
not blame me. It began in the days of Harold Fairhair, one thousand
years ago. There was a Gisli then, and he had a quarrel with a
berserker called Bjorn, and they agreed to fight until one was dead.
And the woman who loved Gisli told him that her foster-father, Kol,
who was a thrall, had a sword that whoever wielded would win in
any fight. And Gisli sent for Kol and asked him: