“You must bring something that I want, first.  In the northeast corner of the provision shed, was it not, Sigurd?”

Young Haraldsson was scrambling to his feet in futile grabs after one of the hounds that was making off with his herring, but he nodded back over his shoulder.  Helga looked from one to the other of her companions with an ecstatic smack of her lips.  “Honey,” she informed them.  “Sigurd ran across a jar of it last night.  That pig of an Olver yonder hid it on the highest shelf.  Very likely the goldsmith’s daughter gave it to him and it was his intention to keep it all for himself.  We will put a trick upon him.  Bring it quickly, thrall.  Yet have a care that he does not see it as you pass him.  That is he with the bandaged head.  If he looks sharply at you, hide the jar with your arm and it is likely he will think that you have been stealing some food for yourself, and be too sleepy to care.”

Lord Alwin of Northumbria lost sight of the lounging figures about him, lost sight of Sigurd chasing the circling hound, lost sight of everything save the imperious young person before him.  He stared at her as though he could not believe his ears.  She waved him away; but he did not move.

“Let him think that I am stealing!” he managed to gasp at last.

The grass around Helga’s foot stirred ominously.

“I have told you that he is too sleepy to care.  If he threatens to flog you, I promise that I will interfere.  Coward, what are you afraid of?”

She caught her breath at the blazing of his face.  He said between his clenched teeth:  “I will not let him think that I would steal so much as one dried herring,—­were I starving!”

The fire shot out of Helga’s beautiful eyes.  Egil and the Wrestler sprang up with angry exclamations; but words would not suffice Helga.  Leaping to her feet, she caught up the riding-whip from the grass beside her and lashed it across the thrall’s face with all her might.  A bar of livid red was kindled like a flame along his cheek.

“You are cracking the face of Leif’s property,” Rolf murmured in mild remonstrance.

Egil laughed, a hateful gloating laugh, and settled himself against a tree to see the finish.  As Helga’s arm was flung up the second time, the thrall leaped upon her and tore the whip from her grasp and broke it in pieces.  He would that he might have broken her as well; he thirsted to,—­when he caught sight of the laughing Egil, and everything else was blotted out of his vision.  Without a sound, but with the animal passion for killing upon his white face, he wheeled and leaped upon the Black One, crushing him, pinioning him against the tree, strangling him with the grip of his hands.

CHAPTER VI

THE SONG OF SMITING STEEL

To his friend
A man should be a friend,—­
To him and to his friend;
But no man
Should be the friend
Of his foe’s friend. 

          Ha’vama’l