Helga’s look of resentment changed to one of pleased surprise, and she shook his hands heartily.  “Do you truly, comrade?  I am glad, for I like you very much indeed,—­as much as I like Sigurd.”

“Then swear by your knife that you will not let him marry you to anyone.”

She pulled her hands away, a little impatiently.  “Why do you ask that which is useless?”

“But you have just said that you liked me.”

“I do; but what does that matter, since I cannot marry you?”

So light had the yoke of servitude grown on Alwin’s shoulders that he had almost forgotten its existence.  He opened his lips to ask, “Why?” Then it came back to him that he was a slave, a worthless, helpless dog of a slave.  He closed his lips again and walked on without speaking, staring ahead of him with fierce, despairing eyes.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE WITCH’S DEN

Moderately wise
Should each one be,
But never over-wise: 
His destiny let know
No man beforehand;
His mind will be freest from care. 

          Ha’vama’l

Because it was Yule Eve, the long deserted temple on the plain was filled with light and sound.  Fires blazed upon the floor; the row of gilded idols came out of the shadow and shone in all their splendor.  The altars were reddened with the blood of slaughtered cattle; the tapestried walls had been spattered with it.  The temple priest dipped a bunch of twigs into the brimming copper bowl, and sprinkled the sacrificial blood over the people who sat along the walls ...  They raised the consecrated horns and drank the sacred toasts.  To Odin!  For victory and power.  To Njord!  To Frey!  For peace and a good year ...  Eric of Brattahlid laid his hands upon the atonement boar and made a solemn vow to render justice unto all men, whatsoever their transgressions.  The others followed him in this, as in everything.

Because this was happening in the temple, Brattahlid, the source of light and good cheer, was dark and gloomy.  In the great hall there was no illumination save the flickering firelight.  Black shadows blotted out the corners and stretched across the ceiling.  The long benches were emptied of all save Leif’s followers and Thorhild’s band of women.  The men sat like a row of automatons, drinking steadily, in deep silence, with furtive glances toward their leader.  Leif leaned back in his high-seat, neither speaking nor drinking, scowling down into the flames.

“He is angry because Eric keeps up the heathen sacrifice,” the women whispered in each other’s ears.  “He has all of Eric’s temper when he is angered.  It would be as much as one’s life were worth to go near him now.”  Shivering with nervousness, they crouched on the bench beside their mistress’s seat.

Thorhild leaned on the arm of her chair, shading her brow with her hand that she might gaze at Leif unseen.  Sometimes her eyes dwelt on his face, and sometimes they rested on the silver crucifix that shone on his breast; and so great was her tenderness for the one, that she embraced the other also in a look of yearning love.