To return that night was out of the question.  Alwin was too exhausted even to think of it,—­beyond a sleepy wonder as to whether a scolding or a flogging would be the penalty of his involuntary truancy.  He even forgot the existence of the man he had come to see, though the round, red-faced sailor dozed in a corner directly opposite him.

Sigurd, however, was less muddled; and he had, besides, a strong objection to returning the next morning, to be laughed at for his weather-foolishness.

“If we do not want to be made fun of, it would be advisable for us to take someone back with us to distract people’s attention,” he reasoned, and laid plans accordingly.  The next day, as they began buckling up their various outer garments preparatory to departure, he suddenly struck into the conversation with a reference to the festivities at Brattahlid.

In a moment the sailor-man’s eyes opened, like two round windows, above his fat cheeks.

The Silver-Tongue spoke on concerning the products of the Brattahlid kitchen, the fat beeves that were slaughtered each week, the gammons and flitches that were taken from the larder, and the barrels of ale that were tapped.

As he settled his boots with a final stamp, and stretched out his hand toward the door, Grettir the sailor arose in his corner.

“Hold on, Jarl’s son,” he said thickly.  “If it is not against your wish, I will go with you.”  He made a propitiatory gesture to the group around the fire.  “You will not take it ill, shipmates, if I leave you now, with many thanks for a good entertainment.  The truth is that it has always been in my mind to visit this renowned Eric, if ever I should be in this part of Greenland; and now that some one is going that way to guide me, I think it would be unadvisable to lose the chance.”

“The matter shall be as you have fixed it, Grettir,” Sigurd said politely, “if you are able to run on skees with us.”

Grettir laughed in a jovial roar, as he helped himself to a pair of runners that rested on antlers against the wall.  “You have a sly wit, Sigurd Jarlsson.  You think, because I am round, I am wont to roll like a barrel.  I will show you.”

And it proved that, for all his bulk, he was as light on his feet as either of them.  In those days, when every landlubber could handle a boat like a seaman, every sailor knew at least something about farming, and could ride a horse like a jockey.  All the way back, he kept them going at a pace that took their breath.

In the excitement of welcoming so renowned a character to Brattahlid, reprimands and curiosity were alike forgotten.  By the time they had him anchored behind an ale-horn on the bench in the hail, he held the household’s undivided attention.  Good-natured with feasting, and roused by the babel around him, he began yarn-spinning at the first hint.

“The western shore?  No man living can tell you more of the wonders of that than I,—­not Biorn Herjulfsson himself!” he declared.  And forthwith he related the whole adventure, from Biorn’s rash setting out into unknown seas, to his final arrival on the Greenland coast.