“Although it is no great wonder that the Lucky One feels interest,” they told each other.  “The last time that Eric the Red came to meet traders, they returned his greeting with a sweep of their arms toward their ships, and an invitation to take whatever of its contents best pleased him.”

“The strange wonder to me,” mumbled one old man, “is that it is always to those who have sufficient wealth to purchase them that presents are given.  It may be that Odin knows why gifts are seldom given to the poor:  certainly I think one needs to be all-wise to understand it.”

His companions clapped their hands over his mouth, and pointed at the approaching boat.

“Look!”—­“Look there!”—­“It is a king’s son!” they cried.  And then it was that their hungry teeth closed upon their morsel of excitement.

In the bow of the boat, shining like a jewel against the dark background of the trader’s dun mantle, stood a most splendidly arrayed young warrior.  The fading sunbeams that played on his gilded helm revealed shining armor and a golden cross embossed upon a gold-rimmed shield.  Still nearer, and it could be seen that his cloak was of crimson velvet lined with sables, and that gold-embroideries and jewelled clasps flashed with every motion.

Buzzing with curiosity, they crowded down to the water’s edge to meet him.  The keel bit the sand; he stepped ashore into their very midst, and even that close scrutiny did not lessen his attractions.  His olive-tinted face was haughtily handsome; his fine black hair fell upon his shoulders in long silken curls; he was tall and straight and supple, and his bearing was bold and proud as an eagle’s.

“He is well fitted to be a king’s son,” they repeated one to another.  And those in front respectfully gave way before him, while those behind fell over one another to get near in case he should speak,—­and Leif himself paused in his greeting of Arnor Gunnarsson to look at the stranger curiously.

The youth stood running his eyes over the faces of those around him, until his gaze fell upon Sigurd Haraldsson.  He uttered a loud exclamation, and sprang forward with outstretched hand.

Sigurd’s cheeks, which had been looking rather pale, suddenly became very red; and he leaped from his horse and started forward.  Then he wavered, stopped, and hesitated, staring.

“Monami_!” said the stranger, in some odd heathen tongue very different from good plain Norse. “Monami_!” He took another step forward, and this time their palms met.

The spectators who were watching Sigurd Haraidsson, whispered that the young warrior must be the last man on earth that he expected to see in Greenland, and also the man that he loved the best of all his sworn brothers.  The fair-haired jarl’s son and he of the raven locks stood grasping each other’s hands and looking into each other’s eyes as though they had forgotten there was anyone else in the world.