From all sides, exclamations of amazement and horror broke out when he had finished.  Only the chief sat regarding him in silence, a skeptical pucker lifting the corner of his mouth.

Leif said finally, “Truth came from your mouth when you foretold that this would appear to me as strange as the tales old women tell.  Until within the last month we have passed through that district almost daily; and never yet have we found aught betokening the presence of human beings.  That they should thus appear to you—­”

“They came like the monsters in a dream, and vanished like them,” Rolf declared.

“Saving in the fact that dream monsters do not leave mangled bodies behind them,” Leif reminded him; and his eyes narrowed with an unpleasant shrewdness.  “Rolf Erlingsson,” he advised, “confess that they are the dreams you liken them to.  That Kark was no favorite with you or your friend”—­he nodded toward the Norman—­“was seen by everybody.  Confess that it was by the sword of one of you that the thrall met his death.”

For once the Wrestler’s face lost its gentleness.  His huge frame stiffened haughtily, as he drew himself up.

“Leif Ericsson,” he returned, fiercely, “when—­for love of good or fear of ill—­have you ever known me to lie?”

The chief looked at him incredulously.

“You will swear to the truth of the tale?”

“I will swear to its truth by my knife, by my soul, by the crucifix you wear on your breast.”

After a moment, Leif arose and extended his hand.  “In that case, I would believe a statement that was twice as unlikely,” he said, with honorable frankness.  And a sound of applause went around as their hands clasped.

From the spot where the Norman had halted when his companion pushed forward, there came the rustle of a slight disturbance.  Sigurd had caught his friend by his cloak and was pleading with him in a passionate undertone, growing more and more desperate at each resolute shake of the black head.  The instant Leif resumed his seat, the Fearless One wrenched himself free and strode forward.  Rolf strove to bar his way, but Robert Sans-Peur evaded him also, and took up his stand before the bench under the maple-tree.

“The Fates appear to be balancing their scales to-night, chief,” he said, grimly.  “For the dead man whom you believed to be alive, you see here a living man whom you thought to be dead.  For the thrall that you have lost, I present to you another.”

Winding his hand in his long black locks, he tore them from his head and revealed the crisp waves of his own fair hair.

From either hand there arose a buzz of amazement and incredulity mingled with grunts of approval and blunt compliments and half-muttered pleas for leniency.  Only two persons neither exclaimed nor moved.  Helga stood in the rigid tearless silence she had promised, her eyes pouring into her lover’s eyes all the courage and loyalty and love of her brave soul.  And the chief sat gazing at the rebel brought back to life, without so much as a wink of surprise, without any expression whatever upon his inscrutable face.