The Dane saluted him with a surly nod, and he answered with such smooth words as the thrifty old Norse proverbs advise every man to practise.

“Greeting, Gorm Arnorsson!  Here is great industry, if already this Spring you have gone on a Viking voyage and gotten yourself so good a piece of property!  How came you by him?”

Gorm gave his “property” a rough push forward, and his harsh voice came out of his bull-thick neck like a bellow.  “I got him in England last Summer.  We ravaged his lather’s castle, I and twenty ship-mates, and slew all his kinsmen.  He comes of good blood; I am told for certain that he is a jarl’s son.  And I swear he is sound in wind and limb.  How much will you pay me for him, Karl Grimsson?”

The owner of the booth stroked his long white beard and eyed the captive critically.  It seemed to him that he had never seen a king’s son with a haughtier air.  The boy wore his letters as though they had been bracelets from the hands of Ethelred.

“Is it because you value him so highly that you keep him in chains?” he asked.

“In that I will not deceive you,” said the Dane, after a moment’s hesitation.  “Though he is sound in wind and limb, he is not sound in temper.  Shortly after I got him, I sold him to Gilli the Wealthy for a herd-boy; but because it was not to his mind on the dairy-farm, he lost half his herd and let wolves prey on the rest, and when the headman would have flogged him for it, he slew him.  He has the temper of a black elf.”

“He does not look to be a cooing dove,” the trader assented.  “But how came it that he was not slain for this?  I have heard that Gilli is a fretful man.”

The Dane snorted.  “More than anything else he is greedy for property, and his wife Bertha advised him not to lose the price he had paid.  It is my belief that she has a liking for the cub; she was an English captive before the Wealthy One married her.  He followed her advice, as was to be expected, and saddled me with the whelp when I passed through the district yesterday.  I should have sent him to Thor myself,” he added with a suggestive swing of his axe, “but that silver is useful to me also.  I go to join my shipmates in Wisby.  And I am in haste, Karl Grimsson.  Take him, and let me have what you think fair.”

It seemed as if the trader would never finish the meditative caressing of his beard, but at last he arose and called for his scales.  The Dane took the little heap of silver rings weighed out to him, and strode out of the tent.  At the same time, he passed out of the English boy’s life.  What a pity that the result of their short acquaintance could not have disappeared with him!

The trader surveyed his new possession, standing straight and slim before him.  “What are you called?” he demanded.  “And whence come you?  And of what kin?”

“I am called Alwin,” answered the thrall; “and I come from Northumbria.”  He hesitated, and the blood mounted to his face.  “But I will not tell you my father’s name,” he finished proudly, “that you may shame him in shaming me.”