“He looks to be a man to be bold in the presence of chiefs, does he not?” the trader observed to Leif Ericsson, regarding the pair benevolently as he stood twisting his long yellow mustache.  “He said to me that the jarl’s son was his friend; it is great luck that he should find him so soon.  He is somewhat haughty-minded, as is the wont of Normans, but he is free with his gold.”  And the thrifty merchant patted his money-bag absently.

The crowd circulated the news in excited whispers.  “He is a friend of Sigurd Haraldsson.”—­“He is a Norman.”—­“That accounts for the swarthiness of his skin.”—­“Is it in the Norman tongue that they are speaking?”—­” Normandy?  Is that the land Rolf the Ganger laid under his sword?”—­“Hush!  Sigurd is leading him to the chief.”—­“Now we shall learn what his errand is.”

And the boldest of them pushed almost within whip-range of the pair.

But there was no difficulty about hearing, for Sigurd spoke out in a loud clear voice:  “Foster-father, I wish to make known to you my friend and comrade who has just now arrived on the Eastman’s vessel.  He is called Robert Sans-Peur, because his courage is such as is seldom found.  I got great kindness from his kin when I was in Normandy.”

The Norman said nothing, but he did what the bystanders considered rather surprising in a knee-crooking Frenchman.  Neither bending his body nor doffing his helmet, he folded his arms across his breast and looked straight into the Lucky One’s eyes.

“As though,” one fellow muttered, “as though he would read in the chief’s very face whether or not it was his intention to be friendly!”

“Hush!” his neighbor interrupted him.  “Leif is drawing off his glove.  It may be that he is going to honor him for his boldness.”

And so indeed it proved.  In another moment, the chief had extended his bare hand to the haughty Southerner.

“I have an honorable greeting for all brave men, even though they be friendless,” he said, with lofty courtesy.  “How much warmer then is the state of my feelings toward one who is also a friend of Sigurd Haraldsson?  Be welcome, Robert Sans-Peur.  The best that Brattahlid has to offer shall not be thought too good for you.”

Whether or not he could speak it, it was evident that the Fearless One understood the Northern tongue.  His haughtiness passed from him like a shadow.  Uncovering his raven locks, he bowed low,—­and would have set his lips to the extended hand if the chief, foreseeing his danger, had not saved himself by dexterously withdrawing it.

Sigurd, still flushed and nervous, spoke again:  “You have taken this so well, foster-father, that it is in my mind to ask of you a boon which I should be thankful if you would grant.  As far off as Normandy, my friend has heard tidings of this exploring-journey of yours; and he has come all this way in the hope of being allowed to join your following.  He has the matter much at heart.  If my wishes are at all powerful with you, you will not deny him.”