“Yonder are Eric’s ship-sheds!  And there—­over that hill, where the smoke is rising—­there is Brattahlid!”

“There?” exclaimed Alwin.  “Now it was in my mind that you had told me that Eric’s house was built on Eric’s Fiord.”

“So it is,—­or two miles from there, which is of little importance.  Oh, yes, it stands on the very banks of Einar’s Fiord; but since that is a route one takes only when he visits the other parts of the settlement, and seldom when he runs out to sea—­Is that a man I see upon the landing?”

“If they have not already seen us and come down to meet us, their eyes are less sharp than they were wont to be three years ago,” Rolf began; when Sigurd answered his own question.

“They are there; do you not see?  Crowds of them—­between the sheds.  Someone is waving a cloak.  By Saint Michael, the sight of Normandy did not gladden me like this!”

“Let down sail! drop anchor, and make the boats ready to lower,” came in Valbrand’s heavy drone.

CHAPTER XIII

ERIC THE RED IN HIS DOMAIN

Givers, hail! 
A guest is come in;
Where shall he sit?

Water to him is needful
Who for refection comes,
A towel and hospitable invitation,
A good reception;
If he can get it,
Discourse and answer. 

          Ha’vama’l

Ten by ten, the ship’s boat brought them to land, and into the crowd of armed retainers, house servants, field hands, and thralls.  A roar of delight greeted the appearance of Helga; and Sigurd was nearly overturned by welcoming hands.  It seemed that the crowd stood too much in awe of Leif to salute him with any familiarity, but they made way for him most respectfully; and a pack of shaggy dogs fell upon him and almost tore him to pieces in the frenzy of their joyful recognition.  A fusillade of shoulder-slapping filled the air.  Not a buxom maid but found some brawny neck to fling her arms about, receiving a hearty smack for her pains.  Nor were the men more backward; it was only by clinging like a burr to her mistress’s side that Editha escaped a dozen vigorous caresses.  Alwin, with his short hair and his contradictorily rich dress, was stared at in outspoken curiosity.  The men whispered that Leif had become so grand that he must have a page to carry his cloak, like the King himself.  The women said that, in any event, the youth looked handsome, and black became his fair complexion.  Kark scowled as he stepped ashore and heard their comments.

“Where is my father, Thorhall?” he demanded, giving his hand with far more haughtiness than the chief.

“He has gone hunting with Thorwald Ericsson,” one of the house thralls informed him.  “He will not be back until to-night.”

Whereupon Kark’s colorless face became mottled with red temper-spots, and he pushed rudely through the throng and disappeared among the ship-sheds.