And then it chanced that we came to a quiet place where a man, armed and with two armed helpers, had a string of slaves for sale.  The poor folk were lying and sitting on the ground, with that dull look on them which I hate to see, and I was going to pass them, throwing them a penny as I did so.  Werbode was laughing at the ways of the horse dealers, and did not notice them; for the sight was common enough after any war of ours with Carl, when the captives who could not ransom them were sold.

And then one of them leaped up with a great cry, and hailed me by name.

“Wilfrid!  Wilfrid of Weymouth!”

I turned sharply enough at that call, for the last thing that one could have expected was that my name should be known here in the land of the East Angles.  And who of all whom I knew in the years gone by would name me as of Weymouth?  I had but been there as a stranger.

“Wilfrid the swimmer!” said the man, stretching his bound hands to me.

The slave trader cracked his whip and rated the man for daring to call to me thus, bidding him be silent.  But I lifted my hand, and he held his peace, doffing his cap to me with all reverence for the fine dress and jewelled weapons—­Carl’s gift—­that I wore.

I did not heed his words of apology, but looked at the ragged, brown-faced man who called to me.  He was thin and wiry, with a yellow beard, and his hands were hard with some heavy work.  Yet his face was in some way not altogether strange to me, though I could not name him.  He was no thrall of ours or of my cousin’s, so far as I could tell.

“Wilfrid—­thane—­whatever you are now,” he said, for I would not suffer the trader to prevent his words, “you gave me a black eye at Weymouth, and thereafter drank ‘skoal’ to me when we chased the trading ship.”

Thereat Werbode laughed.

“Faith,” he said, “if every thrall to whom I have given a black eye or so has a claim on me—­”

But his words went on unheard as far as I was concerned.  I seemed to have the very smell of the smoke of burning Weymouth in my nostrils, and the wild rowing song came back to me.  I minded the man well, and it went to my heart to see the free Danish warrior tied here at the mercy of this evil-eyed slaver, for I knew that he was as free born as myself.

I turned sharply on the merchant, and asked him how it came about that he had this man for sale.

“He is a freeman, and I know him,” I said.

Nevertheless it came into my mind that he had been taken prisoner at the time of some such landing as that wherein I had first seen him.

“He is a shipwrecked foreigner, lord,” was the answer; “a masterless man whom I bought from the Lindsey thane on whose manor shore he was stranded.”

But it seemed to me that there was a look of fear in the eyes of this slave trader.  It came when I, whom he had taken for a Frank noble from my dress, spoke to him in good Wessex.  Whereby I had a shrewd guess that all was not so fair and lawful as he would make it seem.