“I am going as soon as is necessary,” the thrall growled.  “You said nothing of being in haste.”  And he shuffled over to one of the torches to light a splinter in its flame, and pushed his way forward with dragging feet.

Sigurd and the Norman both sprang after him.

“I tell you, Rolf, I have something against this!” Sigurd stormed, as the Wrestler’s iron hand closed upon his cloak.  “My—­my—­my valuables are in the same chest.  I will not have him pawing them over.  Let me go, I say!” He managed to slide out of his cloak and dodge under Rolf’s arm.

A spark of something very like anger kindled the Wrestler’s usually mild eyes; he caught the Norman around the waist, as the latter tried to pass him, and swung him bodily into the air.  For an instant it seemed possible that he might hurl him over the ship’s side into the ocean.  But he finally threw him lightly upon a pile of skin sleeping-bags, and turned and hastened after the jarl’s son.

Guessing that some friendly squabble was in progress, the sailors made way for him good-humoredly, and he reached the forecastle only a moment behind Sigurd.  Kark’s taper was just disappearing among the shadows beneath the deck.

Before the pursuers could speak, the bowerman leaped back upon them with a shriek that cut the air.

“Ran is in there!  I saw her hair hanging over a barrel.  It was long and yellow.  It is Ran herself!  We shall drown—­”

Sigurd Haraldsson dealt him a cuff that felled him like a log.

“The simpleton is not able to tell a piece of yellow fox-fur from a woman’s hair,” he said, contemptuously.  “Since you are here, Rolf, hold the light for me, and I will get the chess-bag myself.”  He spoke loudly enough so that the men on the benches heard, laughed, and turned back to their amusements.  Then he drew Rolf further into the room, laid a hand over his mouth, and pointed to the farthest comer, where barrels and piled-up bales made a screen half-way across the bow.

Hair long and yellow there was, as the simpleton had said; but it was not the vengeful Ran who looked out from under it.  Tumbled and dishevelled, paling and flushing, short-kirtled and desperate-eyed, Helga the Fair stood before them.

“Behold how a prudent shield-maiden helps matters that are already in a snarl,” the jarl’s son said, dryly.

The Wrestler started back in consternation.

Helga dropped her eyes guiltily.  “I cannot blame you for being angry,” she murmured.  “I have become a great hindrance to you.”

“It is an unheard-of misfortune!” gasped Rolf.  “In flying from Gilli you have broken the Norwegian law; and by causing Leif to aid you in your flight you have made him an accomplice.  A bad result is certain.”

Helga’s head bent lower.  Then suddenly she flung out her hands in passionate entreaty.

“Yet I could not help it, comrades!  As I live, I could not help it!  How could I have the heart to remain in safety, without knowing whether Alwin lived or died?  How could I spend my days decking myself in fine clothes, while my best friend fought for his life?  Was it to be expected that I could help coming?” She spoke softly, half-crouching in her hiding-place, but her heart was in every word.