“Tyrker!  My eyes cannot believe that you have the intention to undertake such a march!  Before a hundred steps, it will become such an exertion to you that you will lie down upon a rock in a swoon.”

The old man blinked at him with his little twinkling eyes.

“So?” he said, chuckling.  “Then will we a bargain together make; for me shall you be legs, while I be brains for you.  Then shall we neither be left behind for wild beasts to eat, nor yet shall our wits like beer-foam off-blown be, if so it happens that a beautiful maiden crosses our path.”

Sigurd swore an unholy French oath, as the laughter arose.  Would those jests never grow stale on their tongues? he wondered.  He sent a half-resentful glance to where Robert Sans-Peur stood, calm and lofty, watching the departure.  Whatever else threatened Alwin of England, he had none of this nonsense to endure.  Over his shoulder, as he marched away, the Silver-Tongued made a sly face at his friend.

The Norman caught the grimace, but no answering smile curved the bitter line of his lips.  Smiles had been strangers to his gaunt dark face for many weeks now.

The sailors said of him, “Since the Southerner lost his chance at the bear, he has had the appearance of a man who has lost his hope of Heaven.”

When the noise of the departing explorers sank into the distance, Robert Sans-Peur strolled away from the busy groups and stretched himself in the shade of a certain old elm-tree.  The chief stripped off his mantle and upper tunic, and betook himself to the woods with an axe over his shoulder.  The hammers of the carpenters made merry music as they built the bunks in the new sleeping-house.  Out in the sunshine, fishers and trappers came and went; harvesters staggered in under golden sheaves; and a group of bathers shouted and splashed in the lake.  But the Norman neither saw nor heard anything of the pleasant stir.  Through the long golden hours he lay without sound or motion, staring absently at the green turf and the dying leaves that floated down to him with every breeze.

A meal at midday was not a Brattahlid custom; but when the noon-hour came, there was a lull in the activity while Kark carried around bread and meat and ale.  Combining prudence with a saving of labor, the thrall made no attempt to approach the brooding stranger; nor did the latter give any sign of noticing the slight.  But the chief’s keen eyes saw it, as they saw everything.

From his seat under the maple-tree, he called out with the voice of authority:  “Hardy bear-fighters are not made by abstaining from food; nor are wits sharpened by sulking.  I invite the Norman to sit with me, while he drinks his ale and tells me what lies heavy on his mind.”

It was with more embarrassment than gratification that Robert Sans-Peur responded to this invitation.

“It may well be that my head is drowsy because I have had too much ale,” he made excuse, as he took his seat.