Before his eyes were fairly open, Rolf was on his feet, tugging at his sword.  Luckily, before he thrust, he got a glimpse of his assailant.

“Leif, the son of Eric!” he cried, dropping his weapon.  “Welcome!  Hail to you!”

The warrior’s frown relaxed into a grim smile, as he yielded his hand to his young follower’s hearty grip.

“Is it possible that you are sober after all?  What in the Fiend’s name do you here, asleep by the road in company with a thrall and a purple cloak?”

Rolf relaxed into his customary drawl.  “That is unjustly spoken, chief.  I have not been asleep.  I have found a new and worthy enjoyment.  I have been listening while this Englishman read aloud from a Saxon book of saints.”

“A Saxon book of saints!” exclaimed the guardsman.  “I would see it.”

When its owner had handed it up, he looked it through hastily, yet turning the leaves with reverence, and crossing himself whenever he encountered a pictured cross.  As he handed it back, he turned his eyes on Alwin, blue and piercing as steel.

“It is likely that you are a high-born captive.  That you can read is an unusual accomplishment.  It is not impossible that you might be useful to me.  Who is your master?  Is it of any use to try to buy you from him?”

Rolf laughed.  “Certainly you are well named ‘the Lucky,’ since you only wish for what is already yours.  This is the cook-boy whom Tyrker bought to fill the place of Hord.”

“So?” said Leif, in unconscious imitation of his old German foster-father.  He sat staring down thoughtfully at the boy,—­until his attendant took jealous alarm, and put his horse through a manoeuvre to arouse him.

The guardsman came to himself with a start and a hasty gathering up of his rein.  “That is a good thing.  We will speak further of it.  Now, Olaf Trygvasson is awaiting my report.  Tell them I will be in camp to-morrow.  If I find drunken heads or dulled weapons—!” He looked his threat.

“I will heed your orders in this as in everything,” Rolf answered, in the courtier-phrase of the day.  His chief gave him a short nod, struck spurs to his horse, and galloped after his comrades.

CHAPTER VIII

LEIF THE CROSS-BEARER

    Inquire and impart
    Should every man of sense,
    Who will be accounted sage. 
    Let one only know,—­
    A second may not;
    If three, all the world knows. 
        Ha’vama’l

It was early the next morning, so early that the world was only here and there awake.  The town was silent; the fields were empty; the woods around the camp slept in darkness and silence.  Only the little valley lay fresh and smiling in the new light, winking back at the sun from a million dewy eyes.

Under the trees the long white-scoured tables stood ready with bowl and trencher, and Alwin carried food to and fro with leisurely steps.  From Helga’s booth her voice arose in a weird battle-chant; while from the river bank came the voices and laughter and loud splashing of many bathers.