Half a dozen wooden booths tented over with gay striped linen and adorned with streaming flags, a leaping fire, a pile of slain deer, a string of grazing horses, and a throng of brawny men skinning the deer, chasing the horses, scouring armor, drinking, wrestling, and lounging,—­these were Alwin’s first confused impressions.

“There it is!” cried Helga.  “Saw you ever a prettier spot?  There is Tyrker under that ash tree.  And there,—­do you remember that black mane?  Yonder, bending over that shield?  That is Egil Olafsson.  Now it comes to my mind again!  To-night we go to a feast at the King’s house; that is why he is so busy.  And yonder!  Yonder is Rolf wrestling.  He is the strongest man in Greenland; did you know that?  Even Valbrand cannot stand against him.  Whistle now as you were wont to for the hawks, and see if they will not remember.”

They swept down the slope, the high sweet notes rising clear above the clatter.  One man glanced up in surprise, then another and another; then suddenly every man dropped what he was doing, and leaped up with shouts of greeting and welcome.  Sigurd disappeared behind a hedge of yellow heads and waving hands.

Alwin felt himself clutched eagerly.  “Donnerwetter, but I have waited a long time for you!” said the old German, short-breathed and panting.  “That beast was like the insides of me to have out-shaken.  Bring to me a horn of ale; but first give me your shoulder to yonder booth.”

CHAPTER IV

IN A VIKING LAIR

Leaving in the field his arms,
Let no man go
A fool’s length forward: 
For it is hard to know
When, on his way,
A man may need his weapon. 

          Ha’vama’l

The camp lay red in the sunset light, and the twilight hush had fallen upon it so that one could hear the sleepy bird-calls in the woods around, and the drowsy murmur of the river.  Sigurd lay on his back under a tree, staring up into the rustling greenery.  From the booth set apart for her, Helga came out dressed for the feast.  She had replaced her scarlet kirtle and hose by garments of azure-blue silk, and changed her silver helmet for a golden diadem such as high-born maidens wore on state occasions; but that was her only ornament, and her skirt was no longer than before.  Sigurd looked at her critically.

“It does not appear to me that you are very well dressed for a feast,” said he.  “Where are the bracelets and gold laces suitable to your rank?  It looks ill for Leif’s generosity, if that is the finest kirtle you own.”

“That is unfairly spoken,” Helga answered quickly.  “He would dress me in gold if I wished it; it is I who will not have it so.  Have you forgotten my hatred against clothes so fine that one must be careful of them?  But this was to be expected,” she added, flushing with displeasure; “since the Jarl’s son has lived in Normandy, a maiden from a Greenland farm must needs look mean to him.”