“I wonder to hear that Leif was not at the feast last night,” Sigurd was saying, as he sipped his ale in the leisurely fashion which some of the old sea-rovers in the distance condemned as French and foolish.

Swallowing enough of the smoked meat in her mouth to make speaking practicable, Helga answered:  “He will be away two days yet; did I not tell you?  He has gone south with a band of guardsmen to convert a chief to Christianity.”

“Then Leif himself has turned Christian?” Sigurd exclaimed in astonishment.  “The son of the pagan Eric a Christian!  Now I understand how it is that he has such favor with King Olaf, for all that he comes of outlawed blood.  In Wisby, men thought it a great wonder, and spoke of him as ‘Leif the Lucky,’ because he had managed to get rid of the curse of his race.”

Rolf the Wrestler shook his head behind his uplifted goblet.  He was an odd-looking youth, with chest and shoulders like the forepart of an ox, and a face as mild and gently serious as a lamb’s.  As he put down the curious gilded vessel, he said in the soft voice that matched his face so well and his body so ill:  “If you have a boon to ask of your foster-father, comrade, it is my advice that you forget all such pagan errors as that story of the curse.  Egil, here, came near being spitted on Leif’s sword for merely mentioning Skroppa’s name.”

Alwin recognized the name with a start.  Egil scowled in answer to Sigurd’s curious glance.

“Odin’s ravens are not more fond of telling news, than you,” the Black One growled.  “At meal-time I have other uses for my jaws than babbling.  Thrall, bring me more fish.”

Alwin waited long enough to possess himself of a sharp bronze knife that lay among the dishes; then he advanced, alertly on his guard, and shovelled more herrings upon the flat piece of hard bread that served as a plate.  Egil, however, noticed him no more than he did the flies buzzing around his food.  Whatever the cause of their enmity, it was evidently a secret.

The English youth was retiring in surprise, when Rolf took it into his head to accost him.  The wrestler pointed to a couple of large flat stones that he had placed, one on top of the other, beside him.  “This is very tough bread that you have given me, thrall,” he said reproachfully.

Their likeness to bread was not great, and the jest struck Alwin as silly.  He retorted angrily:  “Do you suppose that my wits were cut off with my hair, so that I cannot tell stones from bread?”

Not a flicker stirred the seriousness of Rolf’s blue eyes.  “Stones?” he said.  “I do not know what you mean.  Can they be stones that I am able to treat like this?” His fist arose in the air, doubled itself into the likeness of a sledge-hammer, and fell in a mighty blow.  The upper stone lay in fragments.

Whereupon Alwin realized that it had all been a flourish to impress him.  So, though unquestionably impressed, he refused to show it.  A second time he was turning his back on them, when Helga stopped him.