For once Alwin was fairly dazed.  “Either this fellow has gotten out of his wits,” he muttered, crossing himself, “or else he has mistaken me for some—­”

He had not time to finish his sentence.  Young Olafsson’s fingers had closed upon the haft of his knife; he drew it with a fierce cry:  “But I will make the rest of it a lie!” Throwing himself upon Alwin, he bore him over backwards across the threshold.

It is likely that that moment would have seen the end of Alwin, if it had not happened that Valbrand the steersman was in the booth, arraying himself for the feast.  He was a gigantic warrior, with a face seamed with scars and as hard as the battle-axe at his side.  He caught Egil’s uplifted arm and wrested the blade from his grasp.

“It is not likely that I will allow Leif’s property to be damaged, Egil the Black.  Would you choke him?  Loose him, or I will send you to the Troll, body and bones!”

Egil rose reluctantly.  Alwin leaped up like a spring released from a weight.

“What has he done,” demanded Valbrand, “that you should so far forget the law as to attack another man’s thrall?”

Instead of bursting into the tirade Alwin expected, Egil flushed and looked away.  “It is enough that I am not pleased with his looks,” he said sullenly.

Valbrand tossed him his knife with a scornful grunt.  “Go and get sense!  Is he yours, that you may slay him because you dislike the tilt of his nose?  Go dress yourself.  And you,” he added, with a nod over his shoulder at Alwin, “do you take yourself out of his sight somewhere.  It is unwisdom to tempt a hungry dog with meat that one would keep.”

“If I had so much as a hunting-knife,” Alwin cried furiously, “I swear by all the saints of England, I would not stir—­”

Valbrand wasted no time in argument.  He seized Alwin and threw him out of the door, with energy enough to roll him far down the slope.

The force with which he struck inclined Alwin to stay where he was for a while; and gradually the coolness and the quietness about him soothed him into a more reasonable temper.  Egil Olafsson was mad; there could be no question of that.  Undoubtedly it was best to follow Valbrand’s advice and keep out of his way,—­at least until he could secure a weapon with which to defend himself.  He stretched himself comfortably in the soft, dewy grass and waited until the revellers, splendid in shining mail and gay-hued mantles, clanked out to their horses and rode away.  When the last of them shouted his farewell to Sigurd and disappeared amid the shadows of the wood-path, Alwin arose and walked slowly back to the deserted camp.

Even the sunset light had left it now; a soft grayness shut it in, away from the world.  The air was full of night-noises; and high in the pines a breeze was whispering softly.  Very softly and sweetly, from somewhere among the booths, the voice of the bond-girl arose in a plaintive English ballad.