“Stop!  When did I say anything against lodging you?  Do you think to throw shame upon my hospitality before my guests?  I will have none of your religion,—­I spit upon it.  You are no longer my son,—­I disown you.  But you shall sleep under my roof and eat at my board so long as you remain in Greenland, you and your following.  No man shall breathe a word against the hospitality of Eric of Brattahlid.  Thorhall, light them to sleeping rooms!” His breath, which had been growing shorter and shorter, failed him utterly.  He finished with a savage gesture, and threw himself back in his chair.

If Leif had consulted his pride, it is likely that that night Greenland would have seen the last of him.  But foremost in his heart, before any consideration for himself, was the success of his mission.  After a moment’s hesitation, he accepted the offer courteously, and permitted Thorhall’s obsequious attendance.

One can imagine the amazement of his followers when he came out to them, not only unharmed, but waited upon by the steward and a dozen torch-bearers.

“It is because he is the Lucky One,” they whispered to each other.  “His God helps him in everything.  It is a faith to live and die for.”

They followed him across the grassy courtyard to the foot of the steps leading up to his sleeping-room, and would not leave him until he had consented that Valbrand and Olver should go in with him for a bodyguard.

“And this boy also,” he added, signing to Alwin.

As Alwin approached, Kark had the impudence to shoulder himself forward also.

“Chief, are you going to turn me out to lie with the swine in the kitchen?” he said boldly.  “Remember that every time you have slept in this room before, I have lain across your threshold.”

Leif’s glance pierced him through and through.  “Is it sense for a man to trust his slumbers to a dog that has bitten him once?  Go lie in the kennel.  If it were not for provoking Eric, you would not wait long to feel my blade.”  He turned and walked up the steps, with his hand on Alwin’s shoulder.

CHAPTER XV

A WOLF-PACK IN LEASH

He utters too many
Futile words
Who is never silent;
A garrulous tongue,
If it be not checked,
Sings often to its own harm. 

          Ha’vama’l

Out in the courtyard the four juniors of Leif’s train were resting in the shade of the great hall, after a vigorous ball-game.  It was four weeks since the crew of the “Sea-Deer” had come into shore-quarters; and though the warmth of August was in the sunshine, the chill of dying summer was already in the shadow.  Sigurd drew his cloak around him with a shiver.

“Br-r-r!  The sweat drops are freezing on me.  What a place this is!”

Rolf, leaning against the door-post, whittling, finished his snatch of song,