“I have no plans beyond those I may make for the help of Gerda,” I said.  “If your home does not call you maybe it is well for her.”

“There are none who will trouble much concerning me until the autumn,” he answered.  “I am a free man in that matter, and it need not trouble you.  Let me work with you in this, for, indeed, I shall not be happy until I have seen her in safety again, and in her own land, if that may be what she wishes.”

“That will be her first wish,” I answered, being sure thereof.

In those last days on board the ship, when I was not taking my turn at the helm, I had spoken much with Gerda, sitting on the deck just without the little shelter we had rigged for her aft, and ever her thoughts had gone back to Norway and a home there.

“You and I must see this through together,” Bertric said frankly.  “I knew that this would be your one thought, and you will be none the worse off for someone to help.  ’Bare is back without brother behind it,’ as your old saw goes.”

I held out my hand to him on that bargain with a great relief, and he took it and laughed.

“Maybe we are making much of what need be little trouble,” he said; “but we cannot tell.  We are in a strange land, and, from all I ever heard, a troubled one.  A lady is no light charge.  Let us see if we can find her before Dalfin wakes.  I think we must plan apart from him for a while, for he is full of our biding always here in Ireland.  Which, of course, is out of the question.”

Now we turned back to the village, and as we went I asked Bertric what he would do when our end had been gained, and Gerda was once more in Norway, and at rest.

“Make my way home,” he answered.  “There will be ships who will be glad of a pilot into English ports, if none happen to want a master.  That is easy for me.  What of yourself?”

“A Norse king is always glad of a courtman,” I said.  “Or the Orkney earl will not let me be idle if I go to him.”

“Aye,” he said, “a man can always find a place.  I do not think you will have to seek far.”

We found Gerda up the glen, watching Fergus milk the little black and white kine which had their byres in that sheltered place.  Among the trees wandered half a score of goats, and the ground was white with the wind flowers everywhere.  She was bright, and seemed very fair that morning, rejoicing in rest and the peace that was all around.

“See,” she said, after our greeting, “even the birds are not feared of us here.  They are the little brothers and sisters of the hermits.”

So indeed it seemed, for the wood birds flew to us, seeking the food which the brethren never failed to bring them.  Gerda stretched out her hand with some crumbs of bread, and they perched thereon, fearless, while Fergus looked up at us and smiled a good morning.

“Have you found your breakfast, my sons?” he asked.  “We set it in your cell; but the prince slept still, and we did not wake him.”