Then I lost sight of Kenulf’s lights, and as I clung to the rail, my mind was torn with longing to be back in my own ship in this danger, though I knew that Kenulf needed me not, and that, had I been there, it would but have been to obey him with the rest of our crew; yet I think that any man who loves his ship will know what I felt.

And of the fury and darkness of that night I will say little.  This is what comes into my mind of all that happened—­aye, and at night, when the wind roars round the house, I see it all again, waking in my dreams as I call to Kenulf.  One flash of lightning showed me my ship dismasted and helpless, drifting broadside on to a sand over which the waves broke white and angry, and when the next flash came—­she was gone!

Then I cried out on my folly in leaving her, and out of the blackness beside me as I clung to the gunwale, straining my eyes against the spray, Halfden’s voice came, crying, as he gripped my arm: 

“By Odin—­it is well that I kept you here!”

And Thormod from the helm shouted to his men to stand by the sheet, and the helm went down, and the ship drove through the seas that broke clean over her as he saw the danger in time to stand away from it, heading her as free as he dared.

Naught of this I heeded, for I could think but of the stout sailor men with whom I had been brought up, and of whom I knew only too surely that I should see them not again.  And for them I tried to pray, for it was all that I could do, and it seemed so little—­yet who knows what help may come therefrom?

Now the longship fought alone with the storm.  Hard was the fight, but I, who was willing to die with my own people who had gone before my eyes, cared nothing for whether we won through the gale or not.  But Thormod called to me, bidding me pilot them as best I might, and so I was taken a little from my thoughts.  Yet can I take no praise to myself that, when the gale slackened, we were safe and beyond the dangers of the shoals.

We were far down channel when morning broke, and on either bow were white cliffs, plain to be seen in the clear light that came after the short fury of the gale was spent.  Never had I thought that a ship could sail so wondrously as this of Halfden’s, and yet I took no pleasure therein, because of all that I had lost.  And it seemed to me that now I knew from my own chance why it was that Lodbrok could sing no song to us at that feasting, when we came home to Reedham; for surely my case was even as his.

So I thought, leaning on the gunwale and staring ever at the white cliffs of England on our starboard; and there Halfden found me, and came, putting his hand on my shoulder very kindly.

“Now if you have lost friends and ship by the common chances of the sea,” he said, “surely you have found both anew.  You shall turn viking and go on this raid with us.  Glad shall we be of your axe play and seamanship.”