“No,” said Gerda, “it is my fancy that my champions shall be well armed.  Open the small chest yonder.”

I did so, and in that lay a most beautiful byrnie and helm, if anything better than those we had been choosing from.  It was the only suit here, and Gerda looked wistfully at it.

“Take that one, Malcolm,” she said.  “It will fit you.  It was one of my father’s—­and I had a fancy that Thorwald would take it to him in Asgard, for he lies on the Swedish shore, and it might not be laid in the mound with him.  Now you shall bear it to him, and he will greet you.”

“I am not worthy to wear it,” I stammered.  “It is too sacred to you.”

“No,” she answered.  “I ask you to do so, and I think you will not refuse.”

Now I saw in the face of Dalfin that he thought it right that I should take the mail, and so I did.  We went with the three suits and the helms back to Bertric, and so put them on, Gerda helping us, and I taking the tiller when it was Bertric’s turn.  Even in this little while one could see that Heidrek’s leading ship had gained on us.

It was more than good to be in the mail of a free man and warrior once more.  Dalfin shook himself, as a man will to settle his byrnie into place, and his eyes shone, and he leapt on the deck, crying: 

“Now am I once more a prince of Maghera, and can look a foe—­aye, and death, in the face joyfully.  My thanks, dear lady, for this honour!”

Then he broke into a wild song in his own tongue, and paced the deck as if eager for the coming of Heidrek, and the promised crash of the meeting ships.  And as suddenly he stopped, and looked at his hands.

“Faith,” he said, “I thought the song went amiss.  It is the song of the swinging swords—­and never a sword have I—­nor either of us.”

Gerda laughed at him.  It seemed that the pleasure of her champions, as she called us, in the war gear pleased her.

“Swords you shall have,” she said at once.  “I did but wait.”

“For what, lady?” asked Dalfin.

She smiled and reddened somewhat, looking down on the deck.

“One can hardly be mistaken as to whether a man is used to war gear,” she said.  “Now I see you three—­prince, jarl, and thane—­as I might have known you to be at first.  Forgive me for the little doubt.”

Seeing what sort of scarecrows we must have been, we did not wonder at all that she had doubted.  And, after all, not every day are three men of rank of different lands to be found adrift in an open boat, simply as it had come about in our case.

“It would have been a wonder if you had not doubted,” said Bertric.  “We have naught to forgive, and, indeed, have held ourselves honoured that you took our words as you did.  In all truth, I do feel myself again in mail, and so must Malcolm.”

I did, and said so.  There are thoughts knit up in the steel ringwork which are good for a man.