But presently Olaf rose up and bade Rani take his place, saying that he would go down to the ships to see that all was well.  And then he beckoned me to follow him, and we went down the long hall together.  It would seem that this was no new thing that he should leave the feast there, for the little hush that fell as we passed the long tables lasted no long time, and the men seemed not surprised.  Indeed King Olaf had little love for sitting over the ale cup, and no man was more careful to see to all things about his ships and men than he.

The great doors closed after us, and we stood in the white moonlight for a moment.  The air was cold and sharp after the warmth of the crowded hall.  Down in the harbour the water was quiet enough, but outside a fair breeze was blowing from the southwest.

“The wind will hold, and will serve us well,” said Olaf.  “Who of all the Danish hosts will deem that such a wind is bringing fire and sword on them from across the sea?”

Then he folded his cloak round him and we went down to the harbour, where the long line of ships lay side by side along the wharf with their bows shoreward.  The great dragon stem heads towered over us, shining strangely in the moonlight, and the gentle send of the waves into the harbour made them sway and creak as though they were coming to life.

“The dragons are restless as I,” he said looking up at them.

“Tomorrow, hungry ones—­tomorrow—­then shall you and I be set free to meet wind and wave and foe again.”

Then one of the men on watch began to sing, and his song was an old sea stave that had a swing and roll in its rough tune that was like the broken surge of sea water, even while it was timed to the fall of oar blades into the surf.  One may not say how old those songs are that the seamen sing.

“That is the dragon’s answer,” said the king to me.  “Sing, Redwald, and take your part.”

So when the man came to the part where all should join, I took up the song with him, and then many others of the men joined in—­some five or six in each ship.

“That is good,” said Olaf, laughing softly.  “Here are men whose hearts are light.”

The man who sang first came now and looked over the high bows of the ship, and his figure was black against the moonlight.

“Ho, master scald!” he cried in his great voice, “now shall you sing the rest.  You have put me out of conceit with my own singing.  Why are you not at the feast, where I would be if I were not tied here!”

“He is keeping the dragons awake,” laughed the king.  “Nor do I think that even a feast would take you from the ship just as the tide is on the turn.”

“Maybe not, lord king,” answered the man, lifting his hand in salute.  “But the dragons will be wakeful enough—­never fear for them.”

So the king answered back cheerily, and other men came and listened, and so at last he turned away, leaving the men who loved him pleased and the happier for his coming thus.