“If I fail,” Alwin returned promptly, “Rolf Erlingsson will pay for me.  He has told me that while he is free and I am bound, he is answerable for what I do.”

At this there was some laughter—­when it was seen that the Wrestler was not offended.  “A quick wit answered that, Alwin of England,” Rolf said with a smile.  “I will pay willingly, if you do not save us both, as I expect.”

Anxious to be done with it, Alwin fell upon the thrall with a fierceness that terrified the fellow.  His blade played about him like lightning; one could scarce follow its motions.  A flesh-wound in the hip; and the poor churl, who had little real skill and less natural spirit, began to blunder.  A thrust in the arm that would have only redoubled Alwin’s zeal, finished him completely.  With a roar of pain, he threw his weapon from him, broke through the circle of angry men, and fled, cowering, among the booths.

There were few words spoken as the cloak and the book were handed over.  The set of Thorgrim’s mouth suggested that if he said anything, it would be something which he realized might be better left unsaid.  His men were like hounds in leash.  Rolf spoke a few smooth phrases, and hurried his companion away.

The sense that he had been tricked to the level of a performing bear came upon Alwin afresh.  When they stood once more in the road, he looked at the Wrestler accusingly and searchingly.

Rolf began to talk of the book.  “Nothing have I seen which I think so fine.  I must admit that you men of England are more skilful than we of the North in such matters.  It is all well enough to scratch pictures on a rock or carve them on a door; but what will you do when you wish to move?  Either you must leave them behind, or get a yoke of oxen.  To have them painted on kid-skin, I like much better.  You are in great luck to come into possession of such property.”

Alwin forgot his resentful suspicions in his pleasure.  “Let us sit down somewhere and examine it,” said he.  “Yonder, where those trees stretch over the fence and make the grass shady,—­that will be a good place.”

“Have it your own way,” Rolf assented.  To the shady spot they proceeded accordingly.

Rolf stretched himself comfortably in the long grass and made a pillow of his arms.  Alwin squatted down, his back planted against the fence, the book open on his knees.

The reading-matter was attractive enough, with its glittering characters and rose-tinted pages, and every initial letter inches high and shrined in azure-blue traceries.  But the splendor of the pictures!—­no barbaric heart could resist them.  What if the straight lines were crooked,—­if the draperies were wooden,—­the hands and the feet ungainly?  They had been drawn with sparkles of gold and gleams of silver, in blue and scarlet and violet, until nothing less than a stained-glass window glowing in the sun could even suggest their radiance.  Rolf warmed into unusual heartiness.