The Norman, still humming carelessly, drew his horn nearer with one hand, and with the other pushed a bowl out of his way.  Then dipping his brush in the purple wine, he began to paint strange-looking runes on the fair new boards before him.

“It has come to my mind to try whether I can remember the words of that French song which we heard together in Rouen,” he said lightly to Sigurd Haraldsson who sat by him.  “Was it not thus that the first line ran?”

Almost with the weight of a blow, Leif’s hand fell upon his shoulder.

“Runes!” he cried, in a voice that brought every man to his feet, even those who had fallen asleep over their drinking.  “Runes?  Is it possible that you have the accomplishment of writing them?”

His hold upon the shoulder tightened, of a sudden, to such a pressure that the young man was fain to drop his brush with a gasp of agony, and catch at the crushing hand.  “You have had this power all these months that you have known of my great need?  How comes it that you have never put forth a hand to help me?” he thundered.

Across the fire, Helga, Gilli’s daughter, held herself down upon the bench with both hands.  But though his lips were twisted with pain, the rune-writer met Leif’s gaze unflinchingly.

“Help you, chief?” he repeated, wonderingly.  “How was I to know that Norman writing would be of assistance to you?  When did you ever tell me of your need?”

Though his gaze continued to hold the Norman for awhile, Leif’s grip on his shoulder slowly relaxed.  Then, gradually, his eyes also loosened their hold.  Finally he burst into a loud laugh and slapped him on the back.

“By the edge of my sword, your wit is as nimble as a rabbit!” he swore.  “I cannot blame you for this.  At least you lost little time in coming to my support as soon as I had told my need.  By the Mass, Robert Sans-Peur, you could not have brought your accomplishment to a better market!  I tell you frankly that it is of more value to me than any warrior’s skill in the world, and I am not too stingy to pay what it is worth.”

Unclasping the gold chain from his neck, he threw it over the Norman’s head.

“Take this to begin with, Robert of Normandy,” he said, with grave courtesy.  “And I promise you that, if your help proves to be as great as I expect, there will be little that you can ask that I shall not be glad to give.”

Decked in the shining gold of his triumph, the masquerading thrall stood with bent head, a look that was almost shame-stricken stealing over his face.  But it is probable that the chief feared that he meditated another attempt at hand kissing, for that brusque commander began to speak quickly and curtly of purely unsentimental matters.

“I have none of the kid-skin of which your Southern books are made.  Yet will not a roll of fresh white vadmal offer a fair substitute?  And certainly there is enough wine—­”