Sigurd shook his head in his goblet.  “When you wish to disarm a serpent, it is best to provoke him into striking at once, and so draw the poison out of his fangs.”

Under the shelter of some twanging chords, Alwin whispered up to them:  “If you could sit here and see Kark’s face, you would think of a dog that is going to bite.  And he keeps watching the door.  What is it that he expects to come through it?”

Neither could say.  They also took to watching the entrance.

Meanwhile the feasting went merrily on.  The table was piled with what were considered the daintiest of dishes,—­reindeer tongues, fish, broiled veal, horse-steaks, roast birds, shining white pork; wine by the jugful, besides vats of beer and casks of mead; curds, and loaves of rye bread, mounds of butter, and mountains of cheese.  Toasts and compliments flew back and forth.  Alwin was kept leaping to supply his master’s goblet, so many wished the honor of drinking with him.  His news of Norway was listened to with breathless attention; his opinion was received with deference.  Often it seemed to Alwin that he had only to speak to have his mission instantly accomplished.  The English youth noticed, however, that amid all Leif’s flowing eloquence there was no reference to the new faith.

The feast waxed merrier and noisier.  One of the fiddlers began to shout a ballad, to the accompaniment of the harp.  It happened to be the “Song of the Dwarf-Cursed Sword.”  Sigurd swallowed a curd the wrong way when the words struck his ear; even Valbrand looked sideways at his chief.  But Leif’s face was immovable; and only his followers noticed that he did not join in the applause that followed the song.  Some of the crew let out sighs of impatience.  They could fight,—­it was their pleasure next after drinking,—­but these waits of diplomacy were almost too much for them.  It was fortunate that some trick-dogs were brought in at this point.  Watching their antics, the spectators forgot impatience in boisterous delight.

While they were cheering the dog that had jumped highest over his pole, and pounding on the table to express their approval, through chinks in the uproar there came from outside a sound of voices, and horses neighing.

“It is Thorwald, home from hunting!” Sigurd said eagerly, looking toward the door.  In a moment he was proved correct, for the door had opened and admitted the sportsman and his companion.

Thorwald Ericsson was as unlike his brother Leif as the guardsman was different from some of the plain farmers around him.  He was long and lean and wiry, and his thin lips were set in cruel lines.  His dress was shabby, and out of all decent order.  Patches of fur had been torn out of his cloak; he was muddy up to his knees, and there was blood on his tunic and on his hands.  He stood staring at the gay company in surprise, blinking in the sudden light, until his gaze en-countered Leif, when he cried out joyously and hastened forward to seize his hand.