“I will not offer you my friendship,” she said simply, “because I read in your face that you have not forgiven the foul wrong I put upon you,—­not knowing that you were brave, high-born and accomplished.  I can understand your anger.  Were I a man, and a woman should do such a thing to me, it is likely that I should kill her on the spot.  But it may be that, in time to come, the memory will fade out of your mind, even as the scar will fade from your face.  Then, if you have seen that my friendship is worth having, do you come and ask me for it, and I will give it to you.”

Before Alwin had time to think of an answer that would say neither more nor less than he meant, she had walked away with Sigurd.  He looked after her with a scowl,—­because he saw Egil watching him.  But it surprised him that, search as he would, he could nowhere find that great soul-stirring rage which he had first felt against her.

CHAPTER VII

THE KING’S GUARDSMAN

Something great
Is not always to be given. 
Praise is often for a trifle bought. 

          Ha’vama’l

It was the day after this brawl, when the guardsman Leif returned to Nidaros.  Alwin was brought to the notice of his new master in a most unexpected fashion.

For one reason or another, the camp had been deserted early.  At day-break, Egil slung his bow across his back, provided himself with a store of arrows and a bag of food, and set out for the mountains,—­to hunt, he told Tyrker, sullenly, as he passed.  Two hours later, Valbrand called for horses and hawks, and he and young Haraldsson, with Helga and her Saxon waiting-maid, rode south for a day’s sport in the pine woods.

Helga was the best comrade in the camp, whether one wished to go hawking, or wanted a hand at fencing, or only asked for a quiet game of chess by the leaping firelight.  Her ringing laugh, her frank glance, and her beautiful glowing face made all other maidens seem dull and lifeless.  Alwin dimly felt that hating her was going to be no easy task, and he dared not raise his eyes as she rode past him.  Instead he forced himself to stare at the reflection of his scarred face in the silver horn he was wiping; and he blew and blew upon the sparks of his anger.

Noticing it, Helga frowned regretfully.  “I cannot blame him if he will not speak to me,” she said to Sigurd Haraldsson.  “The nature of a high-born man is such that a blow is like poison in his blood.  It must rankle and fester and break out before he can be healed.  I do not think he could have been more lordlike in his father’s castle than he was yesterday.  Hereafter I shall treat him as honorably as I treat you, or any other jarl-born man.”

“In this you show yourself as high-minded as I have always thought you,” answered Sigurd, turning toward her a face aglow with pleasure.

By the middle of the forenoon, everyone had gone, this way or that, to hunt, or fish, or swim, or loiter about the city.  There were left only a man with a broken leg and a man with a sprained shoulder, throwing dice on a bench in the sun; Alwin, whistling absently as he swept out the sleeping-house; and Rolf the Wrestler sitting cross-legged under a tree, sharpening his sword and humming snatches of his favorite song: