was the custom of all free men to wear their locks uncut; but this golden mantle!  Yet could it be a girl?  Did a girl ever wear a helmet like a silver bowl, and a kirtle that stopped at the knee?  If it was a girl, she must be one of those shield-maidens of whom the minstrels sang.  Alwin watched the pair curiously as they galloped down the last slope and turned into the lane beside the river.  They must pass the booth, and then...

His brain whirled, and he stood up in his intense interest.  Something had startled the white steed that bore the scarlet kirtle; he swerved aside and rose on his haunches with a suddenness that nearly unseated his rider; then he took the bronze bit between his teeth and leaped forward.  Whitebeard and his bay mare were left behind.  The yellow hair streamed out like a banner; nearer, and Alwin could see that it was indeed a girl.  She wound her hands in the reins and kept her seat like a centaur.  But suddenly something gave way.  Over she went, sidewise; and by the wrist, tangled in the reins, the horse dragged her over the stony road.

Forgetting his manacled limbs, Alwin started forward; but it was all over in an instant.  One of the trader’s servants flew at the animal’s head and stopped him, almost at the door of the booth.  In another moment a crowd gathered around the fallen girl and shut her from his view.  Alwin gazed at the shifting backs with a dreadful vision of golden hair torn and splashed with blood.  She must be dead, for she had not once screamed.  His head was still ringing with the shrieks of his mother’s waiting-women, as the Danes bore them out of the burning castle.

Whitebeard came galloping up, puffing and panting.  He was a puny little German, with a face as small and withered as a winter apple, but a body swaddled in fur-trimmed tunics until it seemed as fat as a polar bear’s.  He rolled off his horse; the crowd parted before him.  Then the English youth experienced another shock.

Bruised and muddy, but neither dead nor fainting, the girl stood examining her wrist with the utmost calmness.  Though her face was white and drawn with pain, she looked up at the old man with a little twisted smile.

“It is nothing, Tyrker,” she said quickly; “only the girth broke, and it appears that my wrist is out of joint.  We will go in here, and you shall set it.”

Tyrker blinked at her for a moment with an expression of mingled affection and wonder; then he drew a deep breath.  “Donnerwetter, but you are a true shield-maiden!” he said in a wavering treble.

The trader received them with true Norse hospitality; and Alwin watched in speechless amazement while the old man ripped up the scarlet sleeve and wrenched the dislocated bones into position, without a murmur from the patient.  Despite her strange dress and general dishevelment, he could see now that she was a beautiful girl, a year or two younger than himself.  Her face was as delicately pink-and-pearly as a sea-shell, and corn-flowers among the wheat were no bluer than the eyes that looked out from under her rippling golden tresses.