“By the hilt of my sword, he was an accomplished man who was able to make such pictures!  Look at that horse,—­it does not keep you guessing a moment to tell what it is.  And yonder man with the red flames leaping about him,—­I wish I knew why he was bound to that post!”

Alwin also was bitten with curiosity.  “I tell you what I will do,” he offered.  “You must not suppose that reading is as easy as swimming, or handling a sword.  My father did not have the accomplishment, and his hair was gray.  Neither would my mother have learned it, had it not been that Alfred was her kinsman and she was proud of his scholarship.  Nor should I have known how, if she had not taught me.  And I have forgotten much.  But this I will offer you:  I will read the Saxon words to myself, and then tell you in the Northern tongue what they mean.”

He spread the book open on a spot of clean turf, stretched himself on his stomach, gripped one leg around the other, planted his chin on his clenched fists, and began.

It was slow work.  He had forgotten a good deal; and every other word was linked with distracting memories:  his mother leaning from her embroidery frame to follow the line with her bodkin; his mother, erect and stern, bidding Brother Ambrose bear him away and flog him for his idleness; his mother hearing his lesson with one arm around him and the other hand holding the sweetmeat she would give him if he succeeded.  He did not notice that Rolf’s eyes were gradually closing, and his bated breath lengthening into long even sighs.  He plodded on and on.

All at once a thunder of approaching hoof-beats reached him from up the road.  Nearer and nearer they came; and around the curve swept a party of the King’s guardsmen,—­yellow hair and scarlet cloaks flying in the wind, spurs jingling, weapons clattering, armor clashing.  Alwin glanced up and saw their leader,—­and his interest in pale pictured saints dropped dead.

“It must be King Olaf himself!” he murmured, staring.

A head taller than the other tall men, with shoulders a palm’s-width broader, the leader sat on his mighty black horse like a second Thor.  Light flashed from his steel tunic and gilded helmet.  His bronzed face had an eagle’s beak for a nose, and eyes of the blue of ice or steel, piercing as a two-edged sword.  A white cross was painted on his shield of gold.

As he swept past, he glanced toward the pair by the fence.  Catching sight of the sleeping Rolf, he checked his horse sharply, made a motion bidding the others go on without him, and, wheeling, rode back, followed only by a mounted thrall who was evidently his personal attendant.  Alwin leaped up and attempted to arouse his companion, but the guardsman saved him the trouble.  Leaning out of his saddle, he struck the Wrestler a smart blow with the flat of his sword.

“What now, Rolf Erlingsson!” he demanded, in tones of thunder.  “Because I go on a five days’ journey, must it happen that my men lie like drunken swine along the roadside?  For this you shall feel—­”