Back they came to Vineland, and there passed the winter again.  Another spring came in the tender green of the young leafage, and again they put to sea.  So far fortune had steadily befriended them.  Now the reign of misfortune began.  Not far had they gone before the vessel was driven ashore by a storm, and broke her keel on a protruding shoal.  This was not a serious disaster.  A new keel was made, and the old one planted upright in the sands of the coast.

“We will call this place Kial-ar-ness” [Keel Cape], said Thorvald.

On they sailed again, and came to a country of such attractive aspect that Thorvald looked upon it with longing eyes.

“This is a fine country, and here I should like to build myself a home,” he said, little deeming in what gruesome manner his words were to be fulfilled.

For now, for the first time in the story of these voyages, are we told of the natives of the land,—­the Skroelings, as the Norsemen called them.  Passing the cape which Thorvald had chosen for his home, the mariners landed to explore the shore, and on their way back to the ship saw, on the white sands, three significant marks.  They were like those made by a boat when driven ashore.  Continuing their observation, they quickly perceived, drawn well up on the shore, three skin-canoes turned keel upward.  Dividing into three parties, they righted these boats, and to their surprise saw that under each three men lay concealed.

The blood-loving instinct of the Norsemen was never at fault in a case like this.  Drawing their swords, they assailed the hidden men, and of the nine only one escaped, the other being stretched in death upon the beach.

The mariners had made a fatal mistake.  To kill none, unless they could kill all, should have been their rule, a lesson in practical wisdom which they were soon to learn.  But, heedless of danger and with the confidence of strength and courage, they threw themselves upon the sands, and, being weary and drowsy, were quickly lost in slumber.

And now came a marvel.  A voice, none knew whence or of whom, called loudly in their slumbering ears,—­

“Wake, Thorvaldt!  Wake all your men, if you would save your life and theirs!  Haste to your ship and fly from land with all speed, for vengeance and death confront you.”

Suddenly aroused, they sprang to their feet, looking at each other with astounded eyes, and asking who had spoken those words.  Little time for answer remained.  The woods behind them suddenly seemed alive with fierce natives, who had been roused to vengeful fury by the flying fugitive, and now came on with hostile cries.  The Norsemen sprang to their boats and rowed in all haste to the ship; but before they could make sail the surface of the bay swarmed with skin-boats, and showers of arrows were poured upon them.

The warlike mariners in turn assailed their foes with arrows, slings, and javelins, slaying so many of them that the remainder were quickly put to flight.  But they fled not unrevenged.  A keen-pointed arrow, flying between the ship’s side and the edge of his shield, struck Thorvald in the armpit, wounding him so deeply that death threatened to follow the withdrawal of the fatal dart.