The Black Jarl

 Extracted from the 3-part serial in Argosy magazine, New York, December 1, 8 & 15 1923; pp. 161-217 (Part I), 366-381 (Part II), 609-624 (Part III). A jarl was a medieval Scandinavian nobleman; a leader in the Danish and Norse invasions.

(Cover, Argosy Magazine, 1 January 1923)

The Black Jarl
By Johnston McCulley
Author of "The Mark of Zorro," "Hooked," etc.

CONTENTS

(not included in listing)

CHAPTER I.

SVEND THE BLOODY.

BILLOW upon billow the mist rolled away from the fiord, up over the rocky beach, over the wooded slope, on and up into the hills where the dense green forest shielded black aisles in which wild beasts frolicked and evil spirits outcast by Odin and Thor held sinister sway.

Now the waters of the fiord danced and sparkled in the sudden glory of the rising sun, and sea fowl commenced their raucous squawkings as they breakfasted and fought. Sleepy thralls appeared about the great establishment of Svend the Bloody, the big log house at the edge of the dark forest with its half score of smaller out buildings. Smoke issued from vents in the sloping roof. The odor of scorching meat stole through the air.

The huge gates were thrown open and dogs charged forth to snap and snarl at one another as they took their morning run. Sheep and swine wandered slowly toward the edge of the wood for forage. Horses fed in the clearing.

The rays of the bright sun glanced from metal as a man at arms shifted battle-ax from shoulder to shoulder. A shield maiden came forth in gleaming corselet and bright kirtle and heavy sandals, her fair hair streaming down her back and almost to her knees. She followed a trail through the brush to a rushing stream that tumbled down from the hills—the bathing place of the maidens, where they plunged, laughing and shouting, into the melted ice and snow.

Far away on the headland, a tall and slender thrall stood to his feet as the mist rose out of the sea, shaded his eyes with his hands, and looked long at the ship in the offing. Then he buckled his leather belt tighter, made certain that his sandals were secure, turned, inhaled a deep breath—and ran.

He was high above the shore of the fiord, yet he knew the country well. And not for nothing had he been named the Swift. His elbows glued to his sides, his head bent slightly backward, his torso held straight—he knew the proper method of running, albeit that it was natural with him and not a thing acquired.

On he ran, skipping brooks where the melted snow had come down from the headlands to swell the flood. He darted through second growth timber that had grown since the great fire in the forest years before. He sprang over jumbles of rocks and fought the tangling vines and tall ferns.

On he ran; and now he descended rapidly toward the level of the water. In the far distance he could see curls of smoke from the chimneys of the house of Svend the Bloody. The thrall's breathing was more rapid now, and the perspiration streamed down his cheeks and along his throat. His hands were clenched so that the nails bit into the palms. Still he ran, nor slackened his speed, knowing well what would occur if he did.

Presently he reached the rocky beach and went forward at a much greater pace, darting to this side and that to avoid the rougher places. Once he stumbled, but caught himself before he fell. Again he staggered, but when his knees and palms touched the ground he sprang erect again, crouched, and once more he ran.

Now he was compelled to swim a swift stream some thirty feet in width. Emerging on the opposite bank, he took a deep breath and hurried on. Dogs barked and ran to race with him, snapping at his heels. Other thralls squinted their eyes as he passed, for greater expression of interest was denied them and might bring a blow. Men in armor shouted at him, and men at arms, but the thrall gave no heed. He had important news for Svend the Bloody, and for no other man. And as he ran hope sang in his breast—hope of reward.

The ship had been reported just at dusk the night before, and had anchored to await the coming of the dawn. Svend the Bloody had sent his thrall to the headland to watch for the day and carry true news. Now, in the great hall of the house, Svend sat with his back against the thick wall, eating his morning meat. Cringing thralls served him. Magnus, his chief lieutenant, sat at his elbow and imitated him. There was no talk, no sound save of men eating with no regard for table manners.

The thrall dashed through the huge log gates and into the great hall. Almost breathless, he prostrated himself before Svend. Another hundred feet he could not have gone. He gasped for breath and hoped that his master would give him a moment before causing him to speak.

Svend the Bloody put aside the joint of half-cooked meat from which he had been eating. He scraped his giant hands on the edge of the board and looked down at the thrall. Magnus, his lieutenant, copied Svend's actions.

"Speak!" Svend commanded.

The thrall raised his head and gulped for breath with which to give the message.

"Master, I saw the ship in the first rays of the sun," he said.

"It is my ship?"

"It is, master!"

"The one that I sent to Gaul?"

"Even that one, master," the thrall replied. "I know the ship well. When she was building, I worked on her with the others. It is the ship, and none other."

Svend the Bloody got upon his feet and moved slowly forward. He was a giant of a man even in that land of giants, with the shoulders of an ox. His fair hair and shaggy beard were noted for their length. He clenched his hands and flexed the muscles of his great arms, then stood for a moment with his hairy fists planted against his hips, looking down at the thrall.

"It is the news that I expected," Svend said. "You made fair speed here as soon as you were sure?"

"I ran with all my strength, master, to fetch the news."

"You have done well," Svend the Bloody told him. "It is your moment of triumph! You, a thrall, a common slave, have carried important news to your master. You deserve a reward!"

The eyes of the thrall glistened.

"If only that I might see my Normandy again, master!" he begged. "If I might but have my freedom now, and permission to go to my home on some ship—"

Svend the Bloody suddenly laughed raucously, and Magnus joined in. The big jarl's merriment rang back, from the thick walls. Though it was laughter, yet the thrall felt a shiver of fear.

"So you would leave your kind master and the fair land in which he rules!" Svend said. "Thrall, this is your hour of triumph, as I have said. You have done well. Were you to continue on earth, you might mar that fair record."

"Master!" The thrall was alarmed now.

"You are a swift messenger, and Odin has need of such," Svend continued. "We are not supposed to make sacrifices to him now, so our king, Olaf Trygvesson, says. That half-Christian monarch who is building him a city at Trondhjem would tell free-born jarls their manner of conduct in things religious. Yet such a deed as this of yours calls for a sacrifice."

"Master!" the thrall wailed.

"And so, Magnus," the jarl continued, turning to the man beside him, "we are compelled to conduct ourselves with strategy. An indirect sacrifice, as a man might say. Should not this thrall be sent to the thralls' Valhalla, wherever that is, in the moment of his greatness?"

"Nothing could be more appropriate, Svend," Magnus replied, laughing.

The thrall began whimpering. He was still trembling from his long, hard run. And now he trembled also for quite another reason. Svend the Bloody allowed the expression of merriment to die out of his face, His eyes narrowed and his brow wrinkled. He bent forward quickly and grasped the thrall, and lifted him from the floor.

"Master! I did my best—"

"Yet there must be a sacrifice, and you are the nearest," said Svend. "Fool, to think that it was good news you brought! By the hammer of Thor, it was ill news, thrall! Think you that I rejoice at the approach of the son of Haakon the Lover? Men may think so, but it is not true. And now you have heard me say too much, and so—"

"Master!"

"Your breath is half gone already, and 'twill take no great blow to rob you of the rest of it!"

Svend the Bloody drew back bis right hand, doubled his fist, and launched it forward. There came a scream of pain, the crunching of breaking bones. Svend the Bloody tossed the quivering body of the thrall to one side.

"Not quite dead at the blow, but he will be before the sun is much higher," Svend said. "I wished to see whether I still could slay a man with a single blow. Magnus, we must out and welcome the ship. Be careful of your countenance, that men may not guess the truth."

"So he has come!" Magnus said.

"Do not taunt me with it! Can I do less than make him welcome, my brother's son? Is he not a jarl in his own right? Yet did his father wed and live his life in the southland, and now that he is gone the son returns to claim the rights of a jarl here. I fear that we may tread on each other's sandals."

"You have but to say the word—"

"And you would take your ax to him as he sleeps? It will not do! After all, he is my brother's son—and King Olaf might ask questions. Perchance this young man does not know that half my estates of a right belong to him. His father was called Haakon the Lover, because of his softness. The son may be as soft and can be bent to our will."

For a moment he paced back and forth, busy with thought, his brow a thundercloud. Then he stopped his pacing and raised his voice.

"Eric!" he called.

There was a moment of silence, and then another thrall came slowly through the open door. He was a giant, almost as huge as Svend the Bloody. Eric the Dumb, he was called by men, and there was good reason for it. He had been captured while but a boy, during a Viking raid in Normandy, and the horror of that night had struck him. Thick witted he was, his mind and tongue moving slowly. He did not remember his name and station. So Svend had named him Eric in derision, after a foe he hated particularly.

Eric the Dumb folded his arms across his great chest and stood waiting. His eyes strayed once toward the quivering thing on the floor.

"Take that carrion out of here and throw it from the cliff!" Svend commanded in a loud voice.

Then the jar] stalked from the room and into the open, followed by Magnus.

Eric the Dumb uttered a little cry of pain that could not have been heard more than a dozen feet away. He bent over the quivering body of the thrall and made a swift examination. Then he turned his head toward the doorway, and a flash of hate came from his eyes. The dying thrall had been his best friend, and Eric the Dumb would not forget!

CHAPTER II.

A MAN COMES OUT OF GAUL.

ALREADY the ship was coming down the fiord. She was a picture of a ship, some hundred and seventy feet from stem to stern and seventeen feet wide. Her sails were furled, and cascades of watery gems flashed in the sun as the big oars worked through the sixteen oar openings.

Down on the shore, those of the establishment of Svend the Bloody made ready the welcome. It was a long time since this great ship had been sent away, to loot, to trade, and to return to the land of his father Edvard, son of Haakon the Lover. Wherefore, women crowded the water front to greet husbands and sons they had not seen for long, some of them fearing and all hoping, for not always did all of a ship's company return from a perilous voyage.

Thralls rushed this way and that preparing for the landing. Shield maidens strutted back and forth across the rocky beach. Their eyes glinted as they looked at one another, and with reason. Edvard Haakonsson, so report said, was as yet unmarried. It was to be expected that he soon would take one to wife. And he was a man worth the winning.

Edvard Haakonsson was a jarl and heir to broad estates. Moreover, he had been born and reared in that land far to the south, where, it was whispered, men had delicious manners. They were great lovers, those men of the foreign land. And was not this Edvard's father known as Haakon the Lover?

Not a man or woman in the establishment of Svend the Bloody but knew the story. Years before, Haakon had gone on a Viking cruise, and he never had returned. He had met a maid in the land to the south, had wooed and won her, and there he had remained to make his home. The northland called to him in vain.

And now he was dead, and his wife also, and Edvard, their son, alone remained of the family. Wherefore he was returning to claim his place in the land of King Olaf.

There was much speculation among the maidens, and not a little among the men. Haakon the Lover had been a giant of a man, with long fair hair, a proper brother of Svend the Bloody so far as strength was concerned. Yet his great frame protected the heart of a woman. He had been kind alike to men at arms and thralls. He had been known to weep at the death of a close friend in battle. And a great love had softened him.

Edvard Haakonsson, these people of Svend's supposed, would be another such giant. Yet in his blood flowed the influence of the soft land to the south. Perchance his great frame, too, would hide the heart of a woman. Yet he was a jarl!

Now the great ship was approaching the landing place, and men and women shouted their greetings. Thralls waded out into the water, ready to be of service in the landing. There would be great casks of wine to be taken ashore and carried to the big house, they knew. There would be bundles of other things fetched from the lands to the south. The homecoming meant naught but much work for the thralls. Yet there would be a great feast at which Svend the Bloody welcomed his kinsman, and then the thralls would have their share, eating on the floor with the hounds.

Down to the beach Svend the Bloody stalked in company of Magnus. He had forced a smile to his face, and Magnus likewise. They stood aloof, and others gave them space.

"He will be a hulk of a man with the heart of a sheep," Svend said, in low tones. "Such a man was his father, my brother. My mother must have been under the curse of Odin when my brother was born. By the hammer of Thor—"

"The ship is handled well," Magnus put in, hoping to change the other's manner.

"Let us hope that she brings a cargo of profit, since she brings this other also," Svend whispered. "I must be under a curse myself. This, and the command to wait upon King Olaf at Trondhjem, and the activities of the cursed priests with their cross—"

"I have a thought!" Magnus said. "This nephew of yours, Svend, comes from a land where the Christians rule. Do you think it possible—"

"That he be a Christian?" Svend thundered. "A man of my blood? Fool my brother may have been, and soft, but he died in the grace of Odin and went to Valhalla in a viking funeral ship. That much I know! Would he allow his son to be a follower of the Christ? No more words of this! It were an insult even to ask the lad. And, after all, he is a jarl!"

Now the ship was near to the land, and the oars were in. The craft drifted slowly toward the landing place. The thralls were up to their knees in tie water, to their thighs, their necks, waiting to help. On the deck of the craft were cheering mariners and men-at-arms. Frantic women called to their loved ones. Others lifted high above their heads babes that had been born since their fathers had sailed away.

The ship grounded, and the thralls pulled her broadside to the land. Over the side tumbled a score of men in armor, to wade through the surging waters and so claim the dry land. They shouted, brandished their weapons, laughed and called round oaths because they were home again.

Over the side of the ship the end of a landing stage appeared. Sailors thrust it outward and lowered it, until its end rested on the land.

"What is this?" Svend roared. "Is there a man aboard who cannot jump into the water and swim or wade to land?"

"Perhaps there are captive women," said Magnus.

"Even so! Has the day come when a man cannot pack a captive woman on his back? This is a touch of that southern softness, by the hammer of Thor!"

Svend the Bloody started to make his way toward the landing, and Magnus stalked at his heels. Svend was in an ugly mood, though he endeavored not to show it. He cuffed thralls out of his way. He struck a shield maiden aside, and she snarled at him, and put her hand to the dagger at her waist. Svend laughed and cuffed her again.

A child was in his path, and he kicked it aside. A girl, shouting to one of the sailors, was hurled back into the throng. So Svend the Bloody made his way down to the shore and the end of the landing stage.

"Hail, Edvard, son of Haakon the Lover!" the crowd was shouting. "Hail, Edvard Haakonsson!"

The ship was fast. At the top of the landing stage appeared her master. He turned to shout orders to those behind him. And then he walked slowly down to the beach, a giant of a man in armor and helmet, his fair beard blowing back over one shoulder. A dagger was in his girdle, an ax was fastened to his belt. The muscles stood out in knots on his bare legs beneath his mail.

Above him were other men-at-arms, swords and axes gleaming, bows, arrows, and spears near at hand. Some were armed with javelins, light and deadly weapons in the hands of those skilled in their use. They shouted, and then they were still. Their commander walked on down the landing stage, which bent beneath his tread.

"Hail, Svend!" he called, lifting a hand.

"Hail, Rolf! What of the voyage?"

"One profitable raid, and only five men missing," the ship's commander replied. "Much of value have we aboard to be landed."

"Once more you have done well," Svend declared. "And—my kinsman?"

"Is aboard and ready to land and be greeted," Rolf replied.

The ship's commander now was at the foot of the landing stage. Svend clasped him for a moment by the hand, then stood back and spoke in low tones.

"What manner of man?"

"A most peculiar one," Rolf answered. "He is one not to be judged hastily. A man may make his decision at a first glance, and find later that he has decided amiss."

"Let him land! We wait to welcome him!" Svend said.

Rolf turned and lifted his hand. Down the landing stage trooped half a score of men-at-arms, eager to be ashore. They touched the land and stood aside, making an aisle.

"Edvard Haakonsson, come to land!" Svend the Bloody called.

The throng ashore stilled its tumult. Every eye was upon the top of the landing stage. A man appeared there.

Came a gasp from those on the shore.

"He is black of hair!"

"A black jarl, we have!"

"And small! Little in stature!" a woman cried.

Edvard, son of Haakon the Lover, stopped for a moment at the top of the landing stage. He looked at those below him, and his teeth flashed in a smile. He stood in silhouette, and those below had their good look at him.

"By the hammer of Thor!" Svend swore, lightly.

For Edvard Haakonsson did not wear gleaming mail. His bare arms were not crowded with bracelets to show his jarl's rank. His legs were incased in cloth, and he wore a jacket. No helmet was upon his head, but that thing known as a hat. He was a picture of the lazy and woman-hearted land to the south.

Again he smiled, and then he swept down the landing stage like the breath of a gale. His movements were quick. His eyes were glistening, he glanced rapidly from side to side. He came to a stop before Svend and Magnus, and looked up at them.

"You are Edvard Haakonsson, my kinsman?" Svend demanded as though he hoped it were not true.

"I am. And you are Svend, brother of my father!"

"It is so," Svend agreed. "Welcome to the land of your fathers! May Odin give you long life and Thor lend you his hammer against your enemies! My house stands open for you!"

Without another word, Svend the Bloody turned his back and stalked through the crowd, Magnus beside him. Edvard Haakonsson followed beside Rolf. The crowd fell back to let them pass. Thralls gazed at the black jarl, wide eyed. Eric the Dumb showed a flash of interest, because this man was in part like the men of his own land. The shield maidens with their helmets of gleaming silver smiled upon him. Small he was, and black, yet he was a jarl!

They crowded forward closer to look at him. A girl stumbled and fell under his feet. But Edvard Haakonsson did not kick her out of the way and shower oaths upon her. He stopped, gave an exclamation, reached down, and gently lifted her to her feet. He brushed some dust from her kirtle, laughed lightly, and then walked on.

"By Odin!" swore Svend the Bloody, who had noticed the incident. "He is as soft as his father! Magnus, did you see?"

"I saw!" Magnus replied.

"He stoops—he, a jarl—to lift from the earth a maiden of no rank at all! These be soft southern ways! There are certain things that this pretty black jarl must be taught! I suppose he would pet a thrall!"

Magnus laughed. "Any of the shield maidens could defeat him in combat," the lieutenant said.

Edvard had dropped a few feet behind and was looking back at the ship. And now Rolf bent forward and dropped a few words into Magnus's ear.

"Do not be too quick to judge!" Rolf said. "I am no weakling, am I?"

"By Thor—no!"

"And you would think me able to take care of myself?"

"That goes without question."

"Yet were it not for this black jarl I would not be with you now," Rolf declared. "Once he saved my life in combat, and once he saved the ship in a storm, when the men were terrified and on the verge of mutiny and would not work the vessel!"

"This man?" Magnus gasped.

"That man!" Rolf said.

"A man of his small body?"

"Yet in that small body, Magnus, my friend, he has a thing that not all men possess in a great degree," Rolf declared.

"What is this thing he possesses of which you speak?"

"Brains!" answered Rolf. "Brains!"

CHAPTER III.

A FEAST AND A COMBAT.

THROUGHOUT the long day, thralls worked at unloading the ship. Huge casks were carried to the storehouse of Svend the Bloody, and bundles of wares. The sailors and men-at-arms frolicked ashore. All made ready for the feast.

Inside the great house, Edvard Haakonsson was given an apartment of his own, where he refreshed himself after the voyage. And then he walked forth into the great hall again, to find Svend and Magnus and Rolf eating at the big board. He joined them, but he did not eat as they ate. Edvard, son of Haakon the Lover, had fastidious manners. Svend eyed him for a time in silence, while Magnus grinned into his grease soaked beard. And finally the Bloody one saw fit to speak.

"Our customs and manners are different from yours, Edvard," he said. "It is proper that you dress and conduct yourself here as we of the Norse do."

"That is agreed," Edvard said.

"You should dress as a man-at-arms, and on your bare arm wear the bracelets of your rank. Such dress as you now wear is fit only for women."

"I can change to armor, kinsman!"

"Do so before the feast," Svend said. "We grow rough here at times when there is feasting."

"And you would do well to watch those about you," Magnus put in. "Some may entice you to combat, to try your strength."

Edvard turned to look full at him. "I shall be ready," he said.

Magnus grunted and returned to his eating. The fact that there would be a feast that night did not prevent him eating his fill now. Svend the Bloody put aside a picked bone and leaned back against the wall.

"It is well, Edvard, that you know something of the times here among the Norse," he said.

"I am eager to learn," Edvard declared. His manner was somewhat puzzling. He acted like a man who knew more than he betrayed. Svend frowned, but continued his speech.

"Olaf Trygvesson, our king, is a good man in many ways, yet peculiar," Svend said. "The Christians have won him over, and he would win the remainder of us from Odin and Thor. He is building him a city at Trondhjem, and he has commanded that all jarls await upon him there. We have been waiting but for your arrival before setting out.

"There may be grave trouble," Svend continued. "There are jarls who have adopted this new religion, hoping thus to get favor from Olaf. Harald the Just may the curse of Odin be upon him!—is one such."

"And where lies his estate?" Edvard asked.

"Adjoining mine—that is to say but a night's march away," Svend replied. "We have been at warfare for countless moons. Our thralls fight when they meet in the woods. And here and there a dead warrior is found in the brush, with none to tell the manner of his death. Between the establishment of Harald the Just and mine there can be naught but enmity! It is well that you, my kinsman, should know this thing."

"I shall remember it," Edvard replied.

"We go to Trondhjem to see Olaf, but we go prepared. I shall take men-at-arms with me, and thralls, and pitch a camp outside the city. Olaf is giving a fair. But his real intention is to urge us to peace. 'Twould not surprise me if it be a bloody fair. Olaf may turn against the gods and cling to this new cross, but, by the hammer of Thor, he cannot turn all the jarls with him! Only a few week-kneed ones, who curry favor at the foot of the throne! Olaf perchance will not live to see his beard grow gray. This is the year 998, as the new religionists count it from the birth of their Christ. For three years has Olaf reigned, and for two wears has he been building his city. He is constructing what he calls a church, for this new worship. 'Twould serve him better if he constructed means of defense."

Svend the Bloody spoke bitterly, but he was watching Edvard closely meanwhile. And this kinsman who had come out of the south did not betray anything but polite interest.

"To-night we feast. Then a rest, and then we go to Trondhjem," Svend declared. "We go to the fair—and what happens! Jarl, you are a man of proper years, yet you are not wed. Have you put eye on maiden?"

"Not to any purpose," Edvard replied.

"It were well you did so. The estates of your father are on the other side of mine, but years ago I combined them. It would be a difficult thing to separate them now. It is in my mind that we allow them to remain as they are, and at my death you shall be jarl over all. I have no son."

"The thought pleases me," Edvard said. "The estates are in good hands."

Svend smiled for the first time. "Then it is proper that you take a maid to wife," he continued. "Let not yourself be found in the years of age without male issue. There is in my household the maid for you. She is a distant kinswoman, Brynhild by name, a shield maiden."

"Brynhild!" Edvard said.

"A glorious woman, jarl! Big and strong. She can swim the fiord. She has slain a bear with her hands alone. She is tall and straight, with fair hair that hangs below her knees. She would bear you strong sons."

"But this woman perchance would not wish to wed me," Edvard said.

"Not wed a jarl? When she has nothing but good birth, no fortune of her own? Not wed you—if I commanded?"

"But perchance I would not wish to wed her," Edvard said again. "If my heart did not warm toward her—"

Svend the Bloody stopped him with a roar of anger. "Heart!" he cried. "You speak of this thing men call love? What has that to do with bringing forth sons? What you want is a woman of skill and strength, a worthy mother of jarls! No more of this now. You shall see her to-night as she sits among her maidens."

Edvard Haakonsson said nothing to that. He pretended to eat the meat before him. But his mind was working swiftly. He foresaw that he would have to handle this kinsman of his with velvet gloves. Svend the Bloody was a man used to having his own way and brooking interference from none.

He might have been enlightened had he glanced at Magnus at the moment, but he did not. For the brow of Magnus was black with wrath, and he darted venomous glances at both Edvard and Svend. Magnus long before had marked Brynhild, the shield maiden, for his own.

The remainder of the day passed without event and the dusk came. Out in the clearing great fires had been lighted. Inside the big hall torches were fastened to the walls, and things had been prepared for the feast.

Oxen, sheep, and swine had been roasted. Wine casks from the land to the south had been broached. Men-at-arms thronged the big hall, and thralls scurried here and there attending to their labors. Hounds barked and snarled and fought.

Edvard Haakonsson came from his own apartment dressed as befitted the country. He looked more the Norse now, save for his dark hair and skin. He took his place at the table beside Svend, with Magnus on the other side of him. Rolf sat at Svend's other elbow, as was his right.

Never had Edvard seen such a feast as this! Huge chunks of meat were devoured, wine was guzzled. Intoxicated men grew rough in speech and manner. Thralls were cuffed, dogs kicked.

The shield maidens had a table of their own, and Brynhild sat at the head of it. Edvard had looked upon her. She was tall and strong and fair, yet the fact that she was a shield maiden did not prevent her being woman also. Perhaps Svend had whispered certain things to her. The space between her and Edvard Haakonsson was clear, and she looked continually across it.

"There is a maiden for you," Svend whispered. "Mark her well, kinsman. Wed her, and have her bring forth sons. Then, when I am gone, you shall inherit from me also."

"If he outlives you," Magnus snarled.

"I grow old, and Edvard has youth in his veins," said Svend.

"Yet youth has been slain."

"Brynhild will make him a fair wife. See how she looks at the youth even now."

Magnus saw, and growled low down in his throat. Brynhild was not the one to pass by a jarl and accept a jarl's lieutenant. Her eyes burned with ambition more than love. In her heart she despised the black jarl for his small stature, yet she gladly would wed with him.

The feast went on. Warriors were teasing the shield maidens now, and scuffling with them. Shrieks of merriment rang out in the great hall. Dogs fought at the sides of the tables, and thralls scrambled with them for bits of food.

Svend the Bloody lurched to his feet, a huge wine goblet in his hand.

"Drink!" he cried out above the din. "Drink the silent toast!"

Instantly all was still. Not a man or woman there but knew what he meant. And so the toast was drunk, and the names of Odin and Thor came in whispers from lips.

Svend sat down again, half a smile upon his lips. "Olaf may be a great man, but he cannot change every heart," he muttered. "We march to Trondhjem before the sun twice more has sunk beneath the western sea! And before we return perhaps we shall know more of the might of Thor!"

Men and women were leaving the tables now and wandering about the great hall. One by one the shield maidens stopped before the dais and bowed before Svend the Bloody. Brynhild was the last.

She moved deliberately before him, and once more her eyes sought the face of Edvard Haakonsson. And then she would have walked on, but Svend raised a hand and stopped her.

"Fairest of the shield maidens!" he proclaimed. "Our kinsman would greet you!"

Edvard got slowly to his feet. Svend had said it, and Svend was to be obeyed. He, too was a jarl, but Svend the head of the family by weight of years.

Down from the dais Edvard stepped, and went forward. Brynhild bowed low before him, though in her status of shield maiden she was not compelled so to do. By this added courtesy she showed the state of her mind, and big Magnus growled again into his beard.

And now Edvard, son of Haakon the Lover, did a peculiar thing. He reached forward and took one of Brynhild's hands in his own. He lifted it slowly, while men and women wondered, and gently he bent his head and kissed the shield maiden's hand.

There was a murmur of surprise, delight, horror. Brynhild flushed with pleasure. Edvard Haakonsson stepped back, and again he bowed, and then he spoke.

"Greeting!" he said. "My uncle has wonderful maids about him!"

That was all. He went back to the dais and his seat. The shield maiden walked on.

"Is she not a proper maid?" Svend asked, when Edvard had regained his seat.

"All are proper maids," Edvard replied.

Magnus leaned toward him. In his heart was hatred, but he knew that he must conduct himself carefully. This man was kinsman of Svend, and so was entitled to some consideration. Yet not even Svend could prohibit the outcome of a quarrel. This was Norseland, where all men, be they jarls or thralls, stood by themselves.

"She is a wonderful maid," Magnus said in his beard. "She could pick you up, black jarl, and toss you over her shoulder."

"Possibly," Edvard said.

"When she weds, it should be to a man of might. By the hammer of Thor, she is for no weakling!"

All those at the table heard the words. Svend's face grew black, but he said nothing. Edvard turned his head and regarded Magnus as he might have a curiosity.

"Do I understand you to mean that I am a weakling?" he asked.

"You have not the size of a warrior, scarce!" Magnus sneered.

"Nor the strength?"

"Nor the strength!" said Magnus.

"Men have made mistakes before to-night," Edvard observed.

Magnus lurched toward him, and again he snarled. "Jarl," he said, "you have not your father's great body, and I doubt your strength. You have inherited more from your mother, a woman of that land to the south where women—"

My mother is not to be mentioned by your lips!" Edvard warned.

"What is this? A man may not mention a woman? Are women, then, gods to be treated so?"

"They are to be treated with love and respect," Edvard said.

"Love? Respect for women? Jarl, your body speaks for itself. I doubt your strength. And now, after your words, I doubt the quality of your brain. Has your head been touched and weakened by the southern sun?"

Edvard faced him squarely. "Do you, by any chance, doubt my courage also?" he asked.

There was a moment of silence. Every eye in the great hall was upon those on the dais. Edvard, son of Haakon the Lover, had put the question, and Magnus could do naught but answer. An expression of glee came into the face of Magnus. Whatever happened after this, Svend the Bloody could not hold him to account. A man of rank had the right to protect his honor.

"Yes, jarl, I doubt your courage, also!" Magnus said.

Rolf, the shipmaster, gave an exclamation of surprise. Svend swore roundly. Edvard Haakonsson got slowly to his feet. A wine goblet was in his hand. A moment he hesitated, and then he flung the dregs of the wine into Magnus's face.

The uproar came instantly. Men sprang back against the walls. Shield maidens hurried aside, their eyes glowing. Thralls scattered out of the way.

Magnus roared like an angry bull as he wiped the wine from his eyes. He glanced once at Svend, who gave no sign. This thing was between men, and Svend could not take a hand in favoring one or the other. His new-found kinsman, he supposed, would soon be new-lost. In such event, the estates—

"We fight!" Magnus cried.

He sprang down from the dais and waited. Edvard wiped the wine from his hands carefully. He was not smiling now. His face was grim. He walked down to the level of the earth floor, and stood there with his hands at his sides.

"You are my uncle's valued man," Edvard said. "In such case, I have no wish to harm you."

"To harm me?" Magnus shrieked. "You shall die, jarl, by my hands!"

"Nor have I any wish to die at the moment," Edvard told him.

Svend towered to his feet. "What mean those words?" he cried. "Do you, of the blood of Haakon, my brother, turn from the face of a foe?"

"I turn from no man," Edvard replied. "It is but a test of strength and courage this man of yours demands, and I am willing to grant him that. It is not necessary that we fight each other with death-dealing weapons."

"Then what would you?"

"I can throw him!"

Another moment of silence, and then a roar of laughter, in which even the shield maidens joined.

"Throw him?" Svend shouted.

"Throw me?" Magnus shrieked. "I can crush your ribs with my arms. Far better you try the ax or javelin."

"I have chosen," Edvard replied. "The right is mine. The first insult came from you."

"You would wrestle me? In armor?"

"As we now stand."

Magnus scarcely could conceal his delight. This man would be a baby in his arms. He would crush the ribs of the black jarl, and toss him aside to die. Then he would claim the fair Brynhild for his own.

"Make your peace with the gods!" Magnus cried.

Then he rushed. But Edvard Haakonsson merely stepped aside and let him charge by. Magnus turned, growling his curses, and once more he rushed. And this time Edvard Haakonsson did not seek to evade him.

They clashed, their arms entwined, their legs mingled. There was a moment of quiet straining. And then the great body of Magnus whirled swiftly to one side, and he crashed to the ground. Edvard stood over him, hands against hips, breathing no heavier at all.

Silence for the space of a heartbeat, and then shouts of surprise. Magnus struggled to his feet, his face purple with wrath.

"It was a trick!" he roared. "I slipped in wine—"

Once more he rushed. His rage now was a terrible thing. That the black jarl had thrown him once was bad enough. And deep down in his heart Magnus knew that it had been no accident. The black jarl had a method of wrestling that was new.

Once more they clashed, and again there came that moment of silent straining. And then the body of Magnus was whirled aside again to crash against the floor.

Cheers rang up against the beams of the thatch. Svend the Bloody roared his laughter.

"Enough!" he cried. "Edvard, son of Haakon the Lover, you have methods of which we know nothing."

"A trick!" Magnus shouted again, but they laughed him down.

Rolf, the shipmaster, leaned toward the man at his side. "The black jarl has many such tricks," he whispered.

Edvard Haakonsson had stepped back, and again placed his hands lightly against his thighs. He was laughing lightly. Magnus lurched toward him.

"There are things besides wrestling," he said. "Some day we may clash again, and with weapons."

"When the day comes, you will find me waiting," Edvard said.

Magnus turned away, shouting for wine. His face was still purple with wrath. Men were laughing at him behind his back, he knew. Even the maidens had witnessed his downfall—and Brynhild with them!

Edvard walked aside. For a space he leaned against one of the walls, watching the scene. Men and women walked before him, eyed him. His status had changed somewhat, but still they doubted his quality. Brynhild stopped beside him.

"You are strong, jarl," she said, softly.

"Magnus was right. It was but a clever trick."

"But it served," she said. "I am glad that I have found favor in your eyes. Your kiss still burns my hand."

Edvard looked at her quickly, laughed nervously.

"'Twas nothing," he said.

"Such a kiss nothing, before guests and thralls?" she said. "By it you elevated me to your station, jarl. I am your bride when you wish to claim me!"

"But I meant nothing by it," he explained. "In the land from which I come, it is but proper courtesy to greet a woman so."

She raised her head quickly, and her eyes flashed as she regarded him.

"Then I am no more to you than any one of the other maidens?" she asked.

"How could that be, since I saw none of you until to-day?" he replied.

"You do not want me, then?"

Edvard shook his head. "I am sorry!" he said. "I would be your friend—"

"There can be no friendship between us, jarl, after this!"

A moment she looked at him, and then she turned her back upon him and walked rapidly away. Edvard Haakonsson had made another enemy, and a vindictive one. For Brynhild sought out Magnus, and whispered in his ear.

"Kill me this black jarl when you have the opportunity," she said, hotly. "And then ask Svend the Bloody for my hand. It will be waiting to clasp yours!"

CHAPTER IV.

AT TRONDHJEM.

BECAUSE of circumstances, Svend the Bloody did not hesitate in leaving Rolf, the shipmaster, in charge of the estate, with only the ship's crew and a handful of thralls as guards. For King Olaf had commanded all the jarls to appear before him at Trondhjem; hence none would be prowling through the forests with men at arms behind him, ready to fall upon the unprotected domain of a foe.

Two days after the arrival of Edvard, Svend the Bloody gave the word and the start was made. Svend, having some knowledge of the situation, journeyed as became a jarl of wealth and fame, the better to make an impression upon King Olaf and upon certain other jarls who might be close to the throne.

None knew better than Svend the Bloody that King Olaf had turned Christian, and some of his jarls and their households with him, and that Olaf was seeking to convert others. Yet there were stolid jarls like Svend, who clung to the gods of their fathers and turned against the cross. And this was to be their last stand at Trondhjem before the king. Either they won permission to worship as pleased them, or bloody war would follow.

Svend the Bloody led his host from the clearing and took up the trail through the woods. At his side rode Magnus, and at his other side Edvard. Behind them came men at arms, mounted and on foot, swordsmen and archers and spearmen. And then the armies of thralls, tugging with the oxen at carts that bore Svend's tents and booths, presents, weapons, foodstuffs.

They made a brave company as they won their way slowly through the woods, those in the fore sitting their horses regally, their armor glistening where the sun struggled through the tree tops, their huge swords clanking, their shields swinging, each man with a battle ax at his saddle bow.

Throughout the day they marched, and when the dusk came they camped beside a tumbling stream, pitched a few of the tents, cooked and ate and rested. Edvard Haakonsson, as became his rank, had a tent of his own, and Eric the Dumb to serve him. The choice had been a natural one, for Eric the Dumb had managed to be close at hand when the black jarl had wanted a thrall.

In Svend's pavilion that night there was a whispered conversation between himself and Magnus, while a sentry stood before the opening and another at the rear. Magnus the sly was not the one to overlook such a chance.

"It is in my mind, jarl," he said, "that it might be an ill thing to allow this Edvard to see the king."

"How so?" Svend demanded.

"Know you not the story of Olaf Trygvesson? He came of the race of Harald the Fair-Haired. Did not his mother carry him to Russia to escape the murder decree of the wicked Gunhild? Were they not captured by pirate vikings and sold as slaves?"

"But what has that to do with this affair?"

"In Russia he was well trained for kingship after his identity was discovered. Then he journeyed to foreign lands, to the one they call Greece, and there went through that mysterious rite that the Christians call baptism. That softened him, and because he had been a slave he felt pity for the lot of slaves."

"Still I do not see—"

"He also visited the land of the Gauls, and Normandy, and Scotland. He raided Britain. The mild winds of the southern countries softened him. And this Edvard is new come from there. King Olaf, once he meets him, will observe him well, talk with him, perhaps make him a favorite.

"By Odin!" Svend swore.

"He may whisper into the king's ear, jarl, that he would like an accounting of his father's estate."

"By the hammer of Thor! If he did that—"

"I see that you understand my meaning," Magnus said. "It would have been a good thing if you had left this black jarl behind to guard the estate."

"But he has come with us," Svend replied. "And how am I to prevent him seeing Olaf? It is his right."

"Being a stranger, perhaps that task will be an easy one," Magnus answered. "Tell him that there may be trouble between the followers of the gods and the Christian jarls. Say that you must go to the king, since he has commanded, and that you leave this Edvard at the camp, in command in case of a surprise."

"By Thor! That is a rare idea!"

"I have a rarer one—to split the head of this black jarl some night while he sleeps!"

"Why not come face to face with him?" Svend asked.

"Give me but the chance!"

"It will not do. After all, he is my brother's son, I may have need of him. But I do not trust him yet. Therefore, say nothing to him regarding our policies."

"Do not fear I shall exchange words with him unless it must be done," Magnus said.

"However, it will be well to keep him from Olaf. I thank you for the thought."

"It was freely given," Magnus replied.

"I must face Harald the Just at Trondhjem, I suppose," Svend said. "Each time I face him, it is in my mind to lay open his brains with an ax. Thoughts of him disturb my sleep and bother my days."

Svend the Bloody sought his furs, and Magnus left the tent to go to his own.

In the morning the gay company moved forward again, and late that afternoon they came to the vicinity of Trondhjem. Svend was one of the last of the jarls to arrive for the fair. He growled angrily as he ordered his men to pitch the camp. He did not like King Olaf, and little cared he whether men knew it.

Svend had selected a good place for the camp, on the bank of the fiord and at the edge of the woods, close beside the road that ran into the town. Here was water and fuel, and a place easy to defend. Tents were pitched and pavilions erected. Fires were started, meat was roasted. Other jarls encamped in the neighborhood sent men with greetings, and Svend returned them.

They slept, and were up with the sun. Already the road was a trail of dust clouds as horsemen and footmen hurried toward the town. Jarls rode by with their guards, shield maidens smiled when they saw Svend's camp, thralls trotted beside the horses.

Svend the Bloody ordered out his men and had the horses made ready. Magnus stood to one side talking to two of his warriors. Edvard Haakonsson came from his tent, dressed in his armor, the bracelets of rank upon his bare arms.

"Kinsman!" Svend's loud voice called to him.

"Jarl?"

"It is my wish that you remain in the camp for the day," Svend said.

"Remain in the camp?" Edvard gasped. "When there is a fair and a king to be seen? When there are ladies—"

"It is a matter of urgency," Svend declared. "In these times, it would be unwise for me to venture into the town without ample men at my back. It would be unwise, also, to leave this camp without leaving some man of proper authority in command. I do not want some Christian jarl to lay waste my goods."

"I would make but a poor commander," Edvard said.

"It is my wish, jarl!"

Edvard's eyes flashed at the tone. For a moment he looked straight at Svend the Bloody.

"It is in my mind," Edvard said, "that it is my right to go to the town."

"Is there to be dissension between us?"

"Not unless it is of your foolish making, uncle! I am a jarl, the son of a jarl! It is my right to face the king! You have warriors fit to command the camp. What of this Magnus?"

"I—I wish him to go with me," Svend said.

"If he were here, I might go?"

"But he will not be here," said Svend. "If at least two of his lieutenants were here you might go. But I need my men-at-arms beside me. Your word, jarl! Your word that you will neither walk nor ride to the fair."

Again there was silence for a moment, and the black jarl seemed puzzled. But presently he raised h!s head, and his eyes were twinkling.

"So be it!" he said. "My honored word that I will neither walk nor ride to the fair."

"And that you will not leave the camp!"

"And that I will not leave the camp, save if two of your lieutenants are here to command it."

Svend the Bloody said nothing more. He swung into his saddle and raised his hand. The others mounted after him. The thralls buckled their belts and prepared to run beside the horses. Magnus turned quickly to the two warriors with whom he had been talking.

"You understand?" he whispered. "Start with us, but drop out along the way. Return to the camp, and pick a quarrel with him. And then slay! He must be dead before we return. Make up what story you will, and Svend will not punish. Your tale will stand. There will be none but thralls to see."

Then Magnus mounted and cantered after the jarl.

Down the dusty road they went, headed for the town, Edvard watched until a bend in the highway sheltered them from his view. He turned back and sat down before his tent, and looked over the camp.

Half a score of thralls were going about their duties. Eric the Dumb was but a short distance away, watching the black jarl and waiting to be called. The light of adoration was in his eyes. Eric was slow of wit, but this man caused things to struggle through the mazes of his memory. This man had been in the country Eric had once called home!

The sun rose higher in the heavens. Edvard Haakonsson got up and entered his tent. The manner of Svend had puzzled him, and he was not a fool. He had given his word, and he would keep it, but he wondered why it had been asked.

Presently he heard horsemen in the camp, and went to the door of his tent again. Two warriors were dismounting, two of Magnus's trusted men. Were they to remain in the camp, Edvard might go to the fair and still keep his oath—providing he did not walk or ride!

He knew them both by sight, but not by name. Giants they were, and no doubt great soldiers. They stretched their shoulders, and threw out their chests and advanced toward him. A few paces away they stopped and spoke to each other, yet the words were for him to hear.

"When a man's body is small, so is his courage!"

"When a man apes the manners of women, he has the heart of one!"

"The fairer the hair, the fairer the honor," said the first. "A man with black hair is not to be trusted."

"It may mean something amiss in his ancestry," the second declared.

Edvard Haakonsson had smiled at the first two remarks, scowled at the third, and had become enraged at the fourth. He hurled himself forward and confronted them, his eyes blazing, his hot southern blood uppermost for the moment.

"You speak of me?" he demanded.

One sneered at him. "If the jarl so wishes to take it," he said.

"Do I understand that you question my courage, my honor, and possibly that of my parents?"

"The day is too hot for a man to repeat his words," said the second.

Edvard Haakonsson took a step backward and looked at them searchingly.

"You are of the company of Magnus," he accused. "Why has he sent you? Is he afraid to come himself?"

"What has this to do with Magnus?"

"Do you think that I am blind" Edvard demanded. "So it is a game, is it? A craven game! Yet two men against one is a compliment. Which of you desires to cross swords with me first?"

"The little jarl would fight," sneered the first.

Edvard whipped out his sword and lifted up his shield from before the tent.

"If a moment more passes, I term you coward!" he said.

With a roar of rage the man nearest drew his blade and darted forward. He was no mean swordsman. The second laughed at the ease of it. Yet he drew his blade, too, and stood ready, in case some accident happened.

The thralls crowded near, but not too near. Eric the Dumb crouched before the tent, making little sounds in his throat. The son of Haakon the Lover advanced.

The blades touched, and then the Norseman found a game he never had seen before. For the black jarl did not fight in the usual manner. He did not waste his strength in the weight of a downward stroke. He fenced. He darted from side to side, and his blade bit into mail. His opponent made great slashes that cut nothing but the empty air.

And Edvard Haakonsson was fighting like a man who intends to avenge an insult. There was deadly intent in his manner. The big Norseman gave ground again and again. He had strength remaining, but no skill to match the skill of the black jarl.

Again he whirled, and he grunted a word to his companion. Into the fray leaped the other man, so that Edvard was compelled to face them both.

"So!" he cried. "Assassination! A part of a foul plot! You came back to taunt me—and kill me! But the end is not yet!"

TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK

CHAPTER IV (continued)

AT TRONDHJEM.

THEY rushed to the attack, and Edvard gave ground in turn. Back against the bole of a tree they pressed him and made ready to cut him down.

But Eric the Dumb had seen, and for a moment forgot that he was a thrall. He knew only that the black jarl pleased him, and was being attacked unjustly. He hurled his great body forward and seized one of the men. He held the warrior's arms close to his sides in a hug like that of a bear, so that the man could not use his sword, could only mouth oaths and struggle in vain to get free.

Edvard Haakonsson shouted in triumph and renewed his attack on the other. He got through the guard, and his blade descended. But not the edge of it. The flat struck a terrific blow against a winged helmet, and the man went down.

"And now!" Edvard cried.

Eric the Dumb released his man, and with a loud bellow of rage the warrior sprang forward. Now he, in turn, learned something of fencing. Back Edvard pressed him, tiring him, playing with him. And in time the flat of his blade struck again. The second man lay stretched.

For a moment the son of Haakon the Lover stood panting. And then he turned to the thrall.

"You did well, Eric!" he said. "Get some others, and fetch thongs! Bind these men well, and carry them into the tent of Magnus!"

He returned his blade to its scabbard and leaned against a tree to watch. Eric called to the other thralls, and they brought thongs.

"Bind them hand and foot!" Edvard commanded. "Now carry them to the tent. No man of you is to release them, even if they demand it. Do you understand? They are to remain so until Svend returns. It will be death for the man who disobeys!"

He turned and beckoned to Eric.

"Your back to me!" he ordered. "I cannot ride or walk to the fair, on my honored word—but nothing was said about me being carried!"

And then the black jarl sprang up and caught the giant thrall about the neck and wrapped his legs around the man's middle. And so, carrying Edvard Haakonsson pickaback, Eric the Dumb stood and waited.

The son of Haakon the Lover pointed down the dusty road.

"To the fair!" he ordered.

CHAPTER V.

THE LITTLE MAID.

ALONG the dust-deep highway Eric the Dumb trotted slowly, kicking up great clouds of dust behind him. making nothing of the burden upon his back. Edvard Haakonsson laughed aloud. They passed none, save here and there some thrall sleeping at the edge of the woods.

"On, good steed!" the black jarl cried. "Remember that you are carrying me, and I am not riding."

His words were those of merriment, but his thoughts were not. He sensed a mystery that was fraught with peril for himself. There were some things that cried aloud for an explanation.

Around a bend in the road trotted Eric the Dumb with his unusual burden. Now they could see the buildings of Trondhjem in the distance, and the gay booths on the level space where the fair was being held. People seethed back and forth, common folk straining their eyes to catch sight of famous jarls, and jarls and their men fighting to win through the press and reach the king.

Now Edvard Haakonsson passed countless persons who looked at him in surprise. They knew him for a jarl, and so restrained their laughter. He waved grandly at some of them, laughed, and pretended to be spurring Eric on.

They were not more than two hundred yards from the edge of the fair now. Edvard could see the long lane with pavilions on either side. Shield maidens and ladies of jarls' households were in the midst of the throng. Men-at-arms scowled at one another or greeted one another warmly, according to their creeds.

"Behind the booths!" Edvard commanded; and the thrall turned to one side. On he trotted, but now the perspiration was streaming from him and his breath was coming quicker. Edvard Haakonsson for the moment was quiet, and his merriment had fallen from him. He knew that he must face Svend, and he preferred to do it before the king.

And then a burst of gay laughter reached his ears, and he turned his head quickly. To one side of the road there was a small company, consisting of half a dozen men-at-arms, some thralls, a few shield maidens. But it was none of these who had laughed, though all but the thralls were smiling.

Edvard Haakonsson looked again, and saw a maid. He pressed his arms about Eric's throat, and Eric stopped thankfully. Edvard's teeth flashed in a smile.

The maid stood before the others. She wore a flowing gown caught with a girdle about her waist. Her hair fell in a golden shower down her back, bound with bands of metal. Her bare arms bore a weight of rich ornaments. Never in his life before had Edvard Haakonsson seen a maid like this.

The others held back, but she took a step forward. And he knew by their manner that she was a jarl's daughter. A shield maiden whispered to her, but she waved the shield maiden aside and took another step toward him, and laughed again.

"You like my horse?" he asked.

"He is a well trained steed to walk on his hind legs," she replied, and her voice was like the trickling of water over cool rocks.

Edvard Haakonsson dismounted, for which act Eric the Dumb gave him thanks again. Half a dozen steps forward he took, nor noted the black looks that the men-at-arms gave him. The maiden looked as though she might retreat, yet she held her ground.

"I am new come to this land," Edvard said, "yet it is now in my mind that I was a fool not to come before."

"And how is this?""

"For, had I come before, perchance I would have seen you sooner," he said. "I have lived in a land where there are beautiful women, yet they seem old and ugly when I look at you."

Her face flushed with pleasure. The men she knew did not speak so. Rough Norse they were, who knew not fine speech, men of war and work who did not consider it necessary to speak soft to a woman.

"You come from another land?" she asked.

"But four sleeps ago I landed."

"Yet you are a jarl!"

"It is my station," he replied. "I am my father's son."

"And your father—"

"Haakon the Lover."

Her face turned pale swiftly, and she caught her breath.

"You—you are the son of Haakon the Lover?" she asked. "You are the nephew of Svend the Bloody?"

"I am his nephew," Edvard replied. "But a man cannot pick his uncles."

"You are to live with him?"

"Our interests are related."

"Oh!" she cried. "And it was in my mind to like you."

"And can you not?" he begged. "But you have not told me your name. Is it as sweet as you?"

"I am called Thyra."

"It is a sweet name."

"But perhaps that of my father will not sound so sweet to your ears," she said. "He is called Harald the Just."

"Harald the Proud, to have such a daughter."

"Do you not understand? Between Harald the Just and Svend the Bloody there always has been war. Your people and my people cannot be friends. We are Christians!"

"Cannot a Christian be a friend?"

"But those who worship Odin and Thor will not," she said. "And what a shame it is—at times."

Edvard stepped closer to her.

"Though our houses fight, need we?" he asked. "Can we not be friends? Never before have I seen a maid like you! If I wished one to sit at my right hand—"

"There are maidens in your uncle's house."

"But not for me—now!" he said.

"And in the other houses where Odin is a god."

"I do not speak of gods, lady," he said. "I do not speak of houses and clans. I speak only of you—and of me. Can we not be friends?"

"Are you mocking me?" she asked. "Can I trust one who is not a Christian?"

"I have not said that I am not a Christian."

"You need not—you, a jarl of the house of Svend the Bloody! How could you be, in a house where treachery is bred?"

"But I have not been in that house long!" he protested. "If you are a Christian, you have charity. You have faith. You, also, should have love! Am I mocking you? Can you trust me?"

She raised her head and looked at him bravely, and his eyes did not falter.

"I seem to read that you are an honorable man," she said in a breath.

"Then we may be friends?"

"If you wish it."

"Friendship is but the basis, often, for stronger ties," he said.

Her face flamed again.

"It were well for you if you kept our friendship a secret," she said. "If Svend the Bloody hears of it, he will break it fast enough."

"Svend the Bloody is my uncle, but I am a jarl in my own right, and my father before me," Edvard Haakonsson declared. "I make what friendships please me, and break them only when I will. I hope soon to greet your father. And to see you again soon, Thyra."

He bowed before her, lifted her hand, and pressed it against his lips. She thrilled.

"It is a quaint custom," she confessed, "but it is a pleasant one!"

"Now I must get me to the fair and see the king," he said. "I must swear my allegiance."

"But why do you ride on the back of a thrall? Is Svend the Bloody so poor that he cannot furnish a horse for his kinsman?" she asked.

"I have sworn not to ride or walk to the fair," he answered, laughing. "So I am being carried. I'll explain it better when again we meet. Until then!"

He sprang upon the back of Eric again, turned to wave at her, and was gone. Thyra of the house of Harald stood silently looking after him for so long that the men and shield maidens behind her wondered whether they had been forgotten. But presently she turned and beckoned them, and led them on toward the fair.

CHAPTER VI.

BEFORE THE KING.

GRIM and austere. Svend the Bloody led his men through the throngs at the fair, Magnus riding at his left hand. The company was an imposing one, as Svend had intended it to be. Behind the mounted men-at-arms came the footmen, the archers and spearmen. Then the mounted maidens, of whom Svend had taken half a score along. And then the thralls, each in a fresh white kirtle, bearing Svend's presents to the king.

The common folk surged back from beneath the hoofs of the horses and gazed in awe at Svend's magnificence. Yet many looked at his stern and inscrutable countenance, too, and wondered what thoughts were in being behind that mask of flesh. The common folk knew of the clash of religions and played a part in it.

Svend the Bloody was known as one of the richest jarls in Olaf's kingdom, though not many knew that his jarldom belonged in half to his brother's son. Magnus, riding at Svend's side, curled his lips in scorn at the common folk, and now and then shouted rough orders to the men behind him, merely as a show of authority, at which some men glared and others smiled. There were plenty of other lieutenants of other jarls who hated Magnus.

And so Svend the Bloody and his train came before King Olaf where he sat in his big chair on a raised platform at one end of an open space, the booths and pavilions of the fair and the mass of people forming a background.

Svend dismounted, and the others with him. The thralls hurried forward, some to hold the horses and others to spread Svend's presents before the king. Olaf Trygvesson waved a hand to show that he was grateful, and the king's own men carried the presents away.

Then Svend approached the king. He strode like the jarl that he was, pride in his bearing, his head held high, his shoulders braced. Magnus stalked behind him, while the others held back.

Svend the Bloody knew well that he was making an impression in that moment. He was showing his wealth and power, and King Olaf was a shrewd man. Svend bowed before Olaf, and stood back. But as he glanced aside he saw something that angered him.

Another jarl was approaching from the opposite side. He, too, sent forward thralls with rich presents. He, too, had dignity in his bearing, and behind him came men-at-arms richly weaponed, and glorious maidens. Svend the Bloody was facing his ancient enemy, Harald the Just.

For an instant Svend's face was not a mask. But the hatred that flamed in it was extinguished almost instantly. Then he turned and looked at the king.

"I make you welcome, jarls!" Olaf said.

Thus he greeted them both at once, nor showed his preference. He looked from the one to the other, and when he spoke again it was to both.

"There is too much dissension in the land," Olaf said. "It is our wish that our people live in peace. Some of us there are who follow the cross and the teachings of the Christ. Yet there are others who cling to the old gods. If a man is sincere, I have respect for him, regardless of what faith he professes."

Svend the Bloody opened his eyes wide at that. He had expected an attempt at conversion. He had anticipated an argument, for which he was prepared, and wherein he would stand by Odin and Thor and hurl his defiance. But Olaf, he saw now, was too wise to risk splitting his kingdom so. Olaf Trygvesson knew that civil war would follow an attempt to cram Christianity down the throats of those who followed the gods of their fathers. Later, he was to Christianize his country with the ax, but the time was not yet at hand.

Svend merely bowed without speaking, and Harald the Just did likewise. And so the two jarls faced each other before their king, their faces reflecting none of their thoughts, while their retainers waited behind them motionless but ready for instant combat.

"Svend the Bloody, you are a great man!" King Olaf said, after a time. "You often have proved your loyalty. That you have courage and dignity and wealth goes without being said. And you, Harald, also are a great man, and Svend's neighbor. Word has been carried to me that your households are not at peace."

"That word did not come from me," Svend said quickly. "I do not allow my men to carry tales. I fight my own battles. Never have I asked help of the king."

"Nor did it come from me," Harald said firmly. "I, too, can fight my own battles!"

"Yet I have the word," Olaf told them, with something of sternness in his manner. "A man of my own reported on the situation. It is my wish that this strife cease. We gain nothing by fighting among ourselves. It is my prayer that this land be a Christian land, but I know the thing cannot be done in a moment. A man has the right to his individual belief. However, there is no need of this continual strife."

The king ceased speaking, and the jarls waited for his further words, knowing that he had some. And finally Olaf looked down at them again, and his voice was more gentle when he spoke.

"It is our wish that you seal a pact of friendship, here and now," he said. "Svend the Bloody, and you, Harald the Just, clasp hands before me. Differences in religion you may have, but let us have no other differences. Your thralls must not fight. Your men-at-arms must not attack one another."

Svend drew back a pace and a look of astonishment came into his face. Magnus drew in his breath with a sharp hiss. Harald stood waiting proudly, willing to do as the king commanded, but not wishing to be the first to make the advance.

The mind of Svend the Bloody worked like lightning then. He might smite hands with Harald, but there would be no meaning to it. He could repudiate this friendship when it so pleased him, and in the meantime Olaf and Harald would be lulled to a sense of peace and security.

"Harald?" Olaf called.

"I am agreed," Harald the Just said.

"Svend?"

It was a critical moment. Harald had agreed, and for Svend to spurn the offer of friendship now would mean an instant battle royal, for even in the presence of the king and the king's guardsmen Harald could not overlook such an affront to his pride.

Behind Svend, his men reached for their swords, and Magnus glanced quickly around and prepared to shout his commands. But Svend had been thinking to some purpose, and already he had a plan. And so he took one quick step forward and looked up at Olaf.

"I am agreed," he said.

There were cheers from those near the king, but Magnus and Svend's men gasped their astonishment. However, it was not for them to question their jarl's sagacity. Undoubtedly, Svend the Bloody knew to what purpose he was working.

The jarls approached each other before the king. There was a moment of silence as their hands met and touched lightly. And then they stepped apart again.

But there was a tension in the air. The friendship scarcely had been cemented. There seemed to be something lacking, and Harald the Just supplied it.

"Svend, great jarl, this is the thing for which I long have waited," Harald said. "The new religion of the cross teaches that neighbors should dwell in love and respect and friendship. Let us have it so."

"Let it be so," Svend ageed.

"My house is open to you," Harald said. "Do you journey to it as soon as this fair is at an end, with your men-at-arms and your women and thralls. The gates will be standing wide. It will be my pride and pleasure to feast you and yours, to cement this bargain that we have made."

"The invitation is a fair one, and as such cannot be refused," Svend replied. "I will do myself the honor of accepting your hospitality as soon as may be, and in turn will offer mine."

"Well spoken!" King Olaf cried. "Let us then have peace. Let your men-at-arms and thralls mingle without passing hot words and black looks, that they themselves may form friendships after the pattern of their masters!"

Svend and Harald bowed before him, and each stepped back once more. Their followers scarce could believe their ears, yet they knew that they had heard aright. Magnus was scowling, searching in his mind for the truth of the matter, for he knew Svend well, and realized that this was not the end.

And suddenly those in the great throng at the side of the open space began ribald laughter. Hounds scurried to cover and snapped and barked. Children screeched their merriment. The king looked across the clearing, and Harald and Svend turned to look also. Svend turned black with rage.

The reason for the sudden merriment was easy to find. Into the clearing before the king came a giant thrall, perspiration streaming from his face. And, carried pickaback, was a man of black hair and dark skin, who wore the ornaments of a jarl.

Edvard Haakonsson had come before his king!

CHAPTER VII.

THE AX THROWER.

WAVES of loud laughter rolled back from the throngs. Men-at-arms joined in, save those who followed Svend the Bloody, for these latter recognized the black jarl and wondered how their master would take this affair.

Svend seemed on the verge of choking, yet he stood straight and proud. His eyes flashed, and the anger clouds gathered on his brow. Edvard Haakonsson urged Eric onward, straight toward the king, laughing back at those who laughed at him, waving his hand to the maidens, pretending now and then to prod his unusual steed. On he came, until Eric was a few paces before Svend, and then Edvard stopped him and stood to the ground and bowed before his kinsman.

Svend's eyes blazed into those of his brother's son. He felt that his dignity was outraged. And he remembered his wish that Edvard remain at the camp, his fear that he would become a friend of Olaf.

"How is this?" Svend cried.

But Olaf stopped him with a gesture. "Who is this man, who wears the ornaments of one of my jarls?" the king demanded.

Svend was compelled to turn and face his ruler. Once he bowed low, yet when he spoke there was anger in his voice.

"Great Olaf, this man is Edvard, the son of Haakon the Lover, and my nephew," Svend said. "He is but new come from the lands to the south, where his father long resided, and where this jarl was born and bred."

"Son of Haakon the Lover? Then is he welcome according to his just rank. But why does he come before us riding the back of a thrall? Is it a new method of approaching a throne?"

Though the king's voice was firm, his eyes were twinkling.

"Those are questions for which I await the answers also," Svend said. "I thought it better that my nephew remain in command of my camp. Word of honor he gave me to do so, unless two trusted men of rank were there to take his place. Yet he is here!"

"Can a jarl forget word of honor?" Olaf demanded, his brow suddenly black.

"Great Olaf, word of honor has been kept," Edvard replied. "I did give it not to ride or walk to the fair. Yet I am here, but I call upon all of you to witness that I did not ride or walk—I was carried."

Olaf laughed at that, and his favorites with him, but Svend did not. The Bloody one stepped forward again, and his voice rang with venom when he spoke.

"But how about the remainder of your oath?" he cried. "You have left my camp, and you promised there to remain unless two men of rank were there in your stead."

"And so they are," Edvard answered. For a moment his eyes met those of Magnus, and the lieutenant betrayed his nervousness.

"Two of your company dropped out of the march and returned to the camp, my kinsman," Edvard continued. "They thought it best to pick a quarrel with me, for some unknown reason. Two giants they were, too. But they remain at the camp."

"Dead?" Magnus cried before Svend could speak. "You have slain them—you?"

"I had no wish to rob my kinsman of two noble warriors," the black jarl replied. "So I merely stunned them and had them bound with thongs and placed in a tent. Perchance, if they see fit to attack me again, they will bring a larger company."

Once more Olaf roared his laughter. Svend turned purple, and the face of Magnus was white. Magnus knew well that the black jarl understood, yet had not betrayed him. And he promised himself revenge on the two warriors who had failed in their undertaking.

"This small black jarl pleases me much! Olaf cried. "Edvard, son of Haakon the Lover, I must have speech with you before the end of the fair. You have come from lands I visited when I was young. There the religion of the cross is strong, and I would speak with you later concerning its developments."

That which Svend the Bloody had feared was coming to pass. Edvard was making a friend of the king. Svend's rage was withheld in a measure, yet it was almost consuming him. He felt compelled to expend it. And he did not dare expend it upon Edvard Haakonsson after what the king had said.

His eyes turned to Eric the Dumb. The thrall was but a thrall, and upon him Svend could work his will. Slowly, the Bloody one drew a dagger from his belt.

"Accursed thrall!" he cried. "You have done this thing! Would you make a mock of me before Great Olaf by turning yourself into a horse? Your blood shall pay!"

He raised the dagger to strike, but Edvard Haakonsson sprang before the thrall and held up a hand in warning.

"If there be blame, it is mine, kinsman," he said. "I commanded the thrall to do as he did."

"One side, jarl! I punish my slaves when I please!"

"But it is not just!" Edvard cried. "The thrall did only as I ordered. Can he be blamed? I appeal to the king!"

Olaf's brow darkened. He had no wish to affront Svend now, after the new pact of friendship. And there were laws regarding a thrall's relations to his master.

"It is Svend's right to punish the man if he so wills," the king said. "I can only hope that he will be merciful. But, if he thinks it better not to be, I can do nothing to stay his hand. A jarl may discipline his slaves."

Svend took another step forward, gloating, and once more the black jarl raised his hand.

"Then let me be champion for this thrall, since the fault is mine!" he said. "It will furnish sport for the throng."

"Champion for a thrall?" Svend gasped.

"You have men of skill among your followers, kinsman. Put one forth against me. Let us throw the javelin, or the ax. If I win, the thrall is mine to do with as I please. If I do not win, you compel him to punishment."

"You would throw ax or javelin?" Svend gasped.

"Against any of your men!"

Magnus surged forward and touched Svend on the shoulder. He thought that he saw his chance to humble Edvard Haakonsson before the king, and when he spoke, Svend had the same opinion. Olaf loved rough sports, and he did not love losers.

"What would you?" Svend asked. "The king has not given the order for the sports to begin."

"I have no hand in this," Olaf said.

Edvard bowed before him again. "Then we will throw the ax," he said. "Let my kinsman choose his man."

"You would pit yourself against Magnus, for instance?" Svend asked.

"Even against Magnus."

"He throws the best ax in my jarldom."

"But never has he met me," Edvard said.

"So be it!"

The throng surged backward again, eager for the test. Here was sport they loved. Far in front of the royal pavilion there was a huge tree, with a blazed space upon its trunk.

"There is the target!" Olaf said.

Now there was a clear space between the king's seat and the tree. On either side pressed forward the throng, noble men and women in the front rows. Howling dogs were kicked backward out of the way. Magnus stood forth, a smile upon his bearded face, and took up his ax.

He turned and looked once at Edvard, gloating in his manner. But the black jarl showed no sign of nervousness. He stood to one side, his hands resting lightly against his hips, his body bent forward.

"It scarcely will be a test, jarl" Magnus said. "Your pet thrall soon will know the taste of Svend's steel."

"You have not yet thrown, nor have I," Edvard replied.

The brow of Magnus grew dark again. One step forward he took. He balanced the ax, and his great arm drew back. The crowd suddenly was still.

An instant of silence, and then the flashing ax whizzed through the air. There was a thud as it struck and quivered. Its blade had bitten deeply into the bole of the tree, and less than the width of a hand below the blazed space. Shouts came from the men at arms and the common folk.

"It is a good throw," Edvard admitted. "Many men could not beat it. If I do not, 'twill be no reflection on my skill."

"Then you think that you will not?" Magnus sneered.

"In a moment we shall see," said the black jarl.

He sprang forward and toed the mark and took up his ax. Eric the Dumb crouched behind him, his lips moving. None knew to what god he prayed, yet all knew that he was praying. None knew better than Eric the Dumb what depended upon the black jarl's throw, and it is not surprising if he had small faith in the outcome. For Magnus was known the breadth of the land as an ax thrower.

The son of Haakon the Lover flashed a smile at those on either side of him, and then set his face grimly. A moment he stood poised. Then his blade flashed through the air.

Again there came a thud, then a cry of surprise and wonder. The ax he had hurled was buried to the hilt in the trunk of the tree. It quivered in the center of the blazed space above that of Magnus.

Edvard Haakonsson stepped backward and bowed to the king. A chorus of cheers assailed his ears. But Magnus strode forward, his face black with wrath.

"Accidents happen!" he cried. "Can the black jarl throw so well again?"

"I have won, have I not?" Edvard demanded.

"You have won," Olaf decided. "The thrall's life is spared, and he belongs to you. But I would like to see yet another throw, if you are willing."

"I am willing," Edvard replied.

Magnus snarled and stepped to the line again. A thrall came running with the axes. Magnus took his and balanced it. For a moment he hesitated, and then he threw. A cheer answered his effort.

It was a better throw than the other, for the ax cut the edge of the blazed space, yet it was not so good as the first throw Edvard had made.

"Let us see you equal that!" Magnus said.

The black jarl laughed and once more stepped up to the line. He waited a moment, for there was a commotion in the throng. Two hounds were fighting, and men and women and children were pushing back out of the way, while thralls ran forward to separate the big dogs.

Their fangs flashed, their howls rent the air. Other dogs fought to get in the battle. The crowd surged backward.

And then a gasp of horror came from the throng. One of the great dogs had broken away. Foaming at the mouth, his eyes blazing, he was darting across the clearing. Women and children ran from his path. Warriors could not get through the press to use their weapons.

And in the path of the crazed hound stood a maiden, dressed in flowing robes, her costume denoting her the daughter of a jarl.

A bedlam of shrieks and cries frightened the hound more. The maiden turned to flee, but tripped and fell. The great dog sprang at her.

Then it was that Edvard Haakonsson gave a cry and hurled his ax quickly through the air. Over and over it turned, yet it struck true. The sickening thud came when the hound was but a spring from his prey. The great dog paused in his leap, and dropped, gasping out his life.

A moment of horrified silence, and then a shout from those who were the first to realize what had happened! Half a dozen aided the maiden to her feet. A score rushed toward where Edvard Haakonsson was standing.

But he thrust them aside and ran across the clearing. He fought his way through thralls and warriors and men and women. He reached the side of the maiden, who was standing wild-eyed and panting, and she whirled toward him and clung to his arm for support.

"You are not injured?" he asked.

She fought to regain her composure, for she had remembered that she was the daughter of a jarl. And then:

"Not injured, thanks to you, Edvard Haakonsson," said Thyra, daughter of Harald the Just.

The crowd fell back, and a big jarl thrust his way forward. His face was stern, yet a suspicion of tears glistened in his eyes. His hand fell upon Edvard's shoulder.

"I thank you, jarl!" he said. "Our daughter is precious to us!"

And then another chorus of cries rent the air:

"Hail, Edvard Haakonsson! Hail, Edvard the Ax Thrower!"

The black jarl had won a name.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE DAY—AND THE NIGHT.

THERE comes to many men a flood of good fortune, events tumbling one upon the heels of the other and each adding to a man's position and fame, and so it happened now to the black jarl.

The excitement of the moment died down, and Thyra went with her maidens to a pavilion her father had erected. For, after all, though the daughter of a jarl she was but a woman, and her danger of a moment not enough to stop the fair.

King Olaf gave the signal for the sports to begin, and Edvard Haakonsson, avoiding his uncle and Magnus and many of the others, walked about the grounds, peering into booths and pavilions and enjoying the sights, Eric the Dumb always at his heels.

Then there came a moment when Edvard turned and regarded Eric gravely.

"It is in my mind that you are of good blood," Edvard said. "I can tell it in your manner and bearing. Tragedy has touched your life, mayhap, but it is not necessary that it endure forever. It is necessary that we have thralls, yet would I rather have a man cling to me and serve me through love. What will be your actions if I set you free?"

Eric's dull face lighted and he struggled to speak. The words came slowly, but finally they came.

"Still would I serve you, master," he said. "To be free, and yet to serve you—that is enough. I do not wish to return to my own country—too many years have passed."

"Then shall you be free, and serve me as a free man."

"And ever will I stand at your back, master, to guard you against foes. For there be foes in this land who strike a man in the back."

Edvard's face darkened. "Did you have more wit, I should take it that there is a double meaning to your words," he said. "Follow!"

They went back to where the sports were being held, and men acclaimed the ax thrower and urged him to show more of his skill. And so Edvard Haakonsson, wishing merely to enter into the spirit of the games and seek his own diversion, so managed it that he made more enemies, and many in the following of his kinsman.

He wrestled, and he won, and it was noticed that the big Magnus took no part in the wrestling. He threw the javelin, and here he won easily, for it was a weapon with which he was familiar. Nor could the swimmers defeat him, which was looked upon as a strange thing, since Norsemen are clever in the water.

Sport after sport he attempted, and almost all he won. Now the throng of common folk acclaimed him, and some of the noble born, yet there were men at arms who thought that he attained altogether too many honors.

The sports came to an end, and Edvard the Ax Thrower was acclaimed the victor. And then he sat at the left hand of Olaf for a space, and talked of lands far away, while Svend the Bloody watched from a distance, his face a thunder cloud.

There was feasting in the open space as the night approached. But when it was ended the jarls went back to their own camps with their followings. Edvard Haakonsson was given a horse, and rode in style, with Eric the Dumb trotting beside his mount.

When the camp was reached, Magnus hurried to his tent, where he found his two men bound. He released them, and what words he said are not known, but they burned. And afterward Magnus went to Svend's pavilion, and held secret conversation there, telling him what had happened.

"This black jarl has belittled me," Magnus said. "Nothing but combat and blood can satisfy me now."

But Svend held up a warning hand. "He must not be touched," he said. "He is the favorite of Olaf after this one day. His sudden death at this time would mean trouble for us."

"Has the day come, then, when my jarl fears the Christian king?" Magnus asked, boldly and hotly. "Are you not almost as great as Olaf? Did you lead the men of Thor, you might yet be king in Olaf's stead."

Svend looked at him searchingly. "Perhaps I am growing cunning, Magnus," he replied. "There was a time when boldness and strength always won, but the day has arrived when a man must possess cunning also."

"But I do not understand," Magnus said. "You bend before Olaf. You strike hands in friendship with Harald the Just!"

"But with a reservation of mind," Svend said, smiling a bit.

"How is this?"

"I have a plan," Svend said. "We will make this visit of friendship to Harald's jarldom. We shall take a goodly company. And men at arms shall follow and hide themselves in the forest."

"You intend—" Magnus did not dare voice his thought.

"Think you that my friendship for Harald could be real?" Svend asked. "The fool grows soft. Look you how there were tears in his eyes to-day when he feared for his daughter! He will welcome us with open arms and suspect nothing. It will be the time to strike."

"The laws of hospitality—" Magnus began.

"Laws have been broken before, Magnus. It is our great chance. I shall pretend an illness and refuse to take salt with him. I can be busy speaking, and forget to eat meat. And when they feel secure, when his gates and doors are open—"

"The men come in from the woods!" Magnus completed.

"But this thing must not be spoken of now," Svend warned. "I do not trust this kinsman of mine too much, and he must never know. And there is another reason for keeping him unknowing."

"I wait to hear it, jarl."

"Were this Edvard to be slain now the king would suspect us, and we want his trust for our plans. We go to Harald's, and before we leave we slay his men and women and thralls, and lay waste his estate. We can tell a tale afterward, of thralls starting the fighting, of warriors joining in. 'Twill not be too strong a tale, hence it will be believed. Harald, the greatest of the Christian jarls, will be gone and his men with him. Even if the king suspect, then, he will dare not strike. For his forces will be weakened. And if he does strike, then we of Odin and Thor finish him."

"And you will be king!" Magnus supplied in a whisper. "None has a better claim. The sons of Earl Haakon have not a better right!"

"Haakon! Must I always hear that cursed name?" Svend cried.

"And the black jarl—"

"Must be kept in ignorance as to our purpose," Svend said. "And what more natural than that, in the heat of battle, he falls?"

Magnus smiled evilly. "I shall see to it that he falls," he said.

"'Twill be a fair day when he does. He has made a fool of you. He has become the favorite of Olaf in a single day. He has the heart of a woman. He fights for a thrall, and now makes a free man of him. He saves a maid from a dog. And that maid the daughter of Harald the Just! Far better would he have served our plans to have held his hand and let the crazed hound do its work. It would not have grieved me to see sorrow eating at Harald's heart."

Svend walked to the door of the pavilion and looked out over his camp. Thralls were stretched around the great fires. Guards had been placed. Warriors laughed and jested and shouted. The clear voices of shield maidens came from tents in the distance. And the bright moonlight bathed it all.

Svend turned back into the tent. "Pass the word, Magnus, that the black jarl is not to be harmed," he commanded. "I want no man to pick a quarrel with him. If we accomplish what we wish, it must be when we raid the jarldom of Harald the Just."

Magnus saluted and left to go to his own tent, and Svend the Bloody sought his couch, there to stretch himself and think more on his plans. In his own tent, Magnus stalked back and forth, his mind filled with Brynhild. He would have to explain to her why Edvard Haakonsson returned from the fair alive.

Edvard had departed from his own tent as soon as the camp had quieted down. Guards saluted as he passed, nor looked where he went. He walked along the edge of the highway, and presently plunged into the brush. When he was at some distance from the camp, he turned into the road again and strode forward, yet ready to dart out of sight if he met men.

He had ascertained where the camp of Harald was located, and now he made his way rapidly toward it. In time he was standing in a clump of trees and watching the tents. There was a great fire in Harald's clearing, too, and his men were making merry.

Edvard the Ax Thrower circled the camp halfway and then crept closer. He made out the women's quarters. Gusts of laughter came to his ears, silvery laughter that he thrilled to hear.

For a space he watched and waited, and after a time the flap of one of the tents was lifted, and a maiden stepped out into the moonlight. It was Thyra.

One of the guards whirled quickly toward her, recognized her, and turned away again to watch the men around the fire. Thyra stood for a moment looking up at the moon, then moved slowly toward the edge of the woods.

Nearer she came, until Edvard could see her features. Beautiful features they were, and now thoughtful ones. She stopped almost at the edge of the brush, and turned to glance back toward the tents, her hands clasped at her breast.

"Thyra!" He called the name softly, like a caress. "Thyra!" he repeated.

She turned swiftly at the sound of his voice, and sudden alarm was in her face and manner.

"Who calls?" she asked in a low tone.

"Him they call the Ax Thrower."

He heard the little gasp of surprise she gave. For a moment she stood still, looking toward the edge of the woods. And then she moved nearer.

"Edvard, son of Haakon the Lover?" she questioned.

"It is I."

Now he stepped out where she could recognize him, then went back a pace, so that the guards would not see. She followed swiftly.

"What do you here at my father's camp?" she questioned. "If you are found—"

"I do not come in anger," he said.

"Then—" She seemed to question why he should come at all.

"Is it strange that I should wish to look upon your fair face again?" he asked.

"You might see me to-morrow at the fair."

"And waste the long night?"

"But you are in danger," she said. "There is not much trust between your house and mine."

"Then you did not wish me to come?" he asked.

"I have not said that."

"Did you not hope that I would? Did you not know that I would?"

"How should I know?"

"Did not your heart tell you so?" he asked. "And why are you walking alone in the moonlight, instead of listening to the shield maidens gossip?"

"Perhaps I grow tired of their gossip."

"If you do not wish to see me, I can go away again."

She hesitated a moment. "Since you are here, it were unmannerly to rush you away," she replied.

Edvard Haakonsson stepped closer to her, looked down at her.

"Never before have I seen a maiden so fair," he said. "I give thanks that my ax went true to-day."

"And I give thanks to you because it did."

"Our houses have plighted their friendship this day, and it is a good omen."

"But there is not much trust," she said. "Edvard Haakonsson, you must beware! Do not stroll about my father's camp at night. There may come a thrust in the dark." She shuddered as she spoke.

"Yet must I see you."

"In secret only, for the present. Perhaps, when days and days have passed, and Svend the Bloody has shown himself sincere—"

"But I cannot wait for days and days, Thyra. I—I want you for my wife."

"You?" she gasped.

"My heart already is filled with love of you. Can there be no hope?"

This was a wooing of the sort she never had known before. It were more the Norse custom for a man to want a maid and make a bargain with her father. She had expected that one day she would be betrothed to a jarl or noble warrior. Yet this manner of wooing pleased her best.

"There—there may be hope," she whispered.

"Thyra!"

"But how can it be? Think you that my father would give me to you? Think you that Svend the Bloody would have you mate with one of the house of Harald?"

"I am my own man!" Edvard said. "I am a jarl, even as Svend is a jarl! In a matter like this, I seek none but my own counsel, Thyra!"

"Then must you win my father over," she said.

"And I do not have you to win?"

"You already have won, jarl!"

He took the last pace toward her and clasped her in his arms, and then his lips met hers. A moment he held her so, then she stepped back again.

"I cannot understand how this thing has come," she said. "And I have the feeling that there is danger to follow—for you. Edvard, you must beware! If anything were to happen to you now, I should die!"

"Well will I guard myself," he said, "when there is such a reason for it."

"Svend the Bloody is to make us a visit. And you will come with him?"

"You may depend upon that. In my eagerness to see you, I shall ride in the van."

"But my father must be won slowly, if we are to win his consent at all," she told him. "You must teach him to trust you, as you have taught me. Perhaps, when you come for the visit—"

"Then we may be able to tell him?"

"Perhaps," she repeated. "But we must keep it secret now. It has all come so swiftly. And we cannot blame my father if he is slow to believe that Svend and those of his house have really changed."

"Then it must be secret," Edvard Haakonsson agreed. "But let us hasten the day."

"And now you must go, Edvard, my Ax Thrower. There is peril for you in the woods. I will return to the tent, and there pray for your safety. And, if you can, Edvard, let your heart turn from Odin and Thor and toward the cross."

He would have replied, but one of the guards turned and walked toward them. And so he clasped her quickly in his arms again, and once more he kissed her. And then he stepped back into the darkness of the dense woods, and was gone.

Thyra, her heart singing, turned toward the approaching guard, acknowledged his salutation, and hurried toward her tent.

CHAPTER IX.

SAVED FROM SACRIFICE.

SVEND the Bloody and his company remained two days longer at the fair, during which time Edvard the Ax Thrower saw Thyra several times, but not once did he get the opportunity to speak to her alone.

Then there came a bright morning when the jarls took their leave of King Olaf, and Edvard among them. Tents were furled, and the gallant companies left the town of Trondhjem and started back to their jarldoms.

His heart and mind filled with love, Edvard Haakonsson did not notice that the men at arms treated him in a peculiar manner. They gave him respect and the attentions due his station, but none of them warmed toward him. And each was particular to do or say nothing that might form the basis for a quarrel. For Magnus had passed the warning and had promised heavy punishment at Svend's hands if the order was disobeyed.

No sooner had he reached the jarldom than Svend the Bloody commenced preparations for the visit to Harald, not all of them, however, being made public. He selected presents, and made up a roster of his company, choosing the more prominent nobles and men of good blood, as though wishing to do honor to Harald, but for a purpose entirely different.

"We must take some of the maidens with us," he told Magnus. "Harald the Just is no fool. If we seek to enter his house with only warriors and thralls, and no women, it may put him on guard."

And so it was decided that Brynhild and some of the shield maidens should go along, it being planned for Magnus to whisper the truth to Brynhild at the proper moment, so the maidens could be rushed to some place of safety.

And now Svend the Bloody took thought on the enterprise he had planned, and consulted with Magnus frequently. His religious fanaticism burned brightly. For this was to be a battle for Odin and Thor, a service to the gods.

"We go not half hearted into this thing, Magnus," Svend said. "We need strengthening for our sword arms."

"There is one way to strengthen them."

"I already have thought of it—sacrifice!" Svend replied. "Olaf Trygvesson has forbidden it. But we do not take orders from the king here. We serve our gods, and let Olaf serve his, and see which is the stronger."

"You will make it a big sacrifice?"

"The greatest!" Svend replied.

Magnus's eyes opened wide. "You mean—a human?" he gasped.

"Even so!"

"And the black jarl—"

"Shall not know of it," Svend declared. "Did he know of the sacrifice, he would wish to know the reason for it. A human being is not sacrificed these days merely to ask good fortune on a journey. And it is my wish that Edvard Haakonsson have no inkling of our real purpose."

"Then—" Magnus questioned.

"We must hold the ceremony when he is not near. None but the trusted men at arms will be admitted."

"That is well," Magnus replied.

"Some thrall—any thrall—will serve our purpose."

An evil glint came into the eyes of Magnus as he bent nearer the jarl. "Does not our purpose demand the best?" he asked, quietly. "Shall we be backward when we ask good fortune of Odin and Thor?"

"How mean you?" Svend asked.

"What is a common thrall to the gods? A little better than sheep or swine, and not half so much as an ox," Magnus said. "Can we not do better than that in asking the blessings of the gods on our enterprise?"

"Speak!"

"A free man!" Magnus suggested.

"A free man? Are you out of your wits? How could such a thing be arranged?"

"Eric the Dumb is a free man—now!"

Magnus whispered. "How I detest the creature! He follows at the black jarl's heels like a cur, struts among his betters—"

"It is an idea!" Svend admitted.

"We can take him at night and bear him to the sacrificial chamber. After his blood has bathed the sticks, his body can be thrown over a cliff. And none will know, save trusted men! Would not that be honoring the gods and flinging defiance at Olaf?"

The eyes of Svend the Bloody glistened. "It would be a noble sacrifice!" he said.

"A free man for the gods! Does every jarl offer such a sacrifice as that?"

"You can arrange it?"

"I can!" Magnus promised.

"So be it, then! To-morrow night, before the moon shines!"

During the day following, Svend and Magnus whispered to the men they had chosen. Edvard Haakonsson, dreaming of seeing Thyra again, noticed nothing wrong. The great house was a scene of confusion because of the preparations for the visit. It had been planned to start soon after dawn, hence Edvard the Ax Thrower sought his couch early, wrapped himself in his furs, and dreamed.

Outside the door, Eric the Dumb stretched his great body on guard. He, too, was dreaming of his new position in the world of men. Two thoughts were paramount in his slow working mind. One was that when the proper time came Svend the Bloody should be made to pay for murdering the thrall the day the ship had come. And the other that Eric the Dumb should serve the Ax Thrower with his life, and guard him from harm.

Finally the great hall was still. The thralls had finished their work and were sleeping, and all but a few of the warriors had prepared for the journey of the coming day. One by one the great torches burned out, until finally only two remained to cast fitful streaks of light across the big room.

From one of the rooms slipped three men. They wore armor, but their faces were covered. From shadow to shadow they darted, until they came close to where Eric the Dumb was stretched. Then one of them uncovered his face and walked forward boldly, attracting the attention of Eric.

Eric looked closely at him, but saw nothing more than a warrior pacing back and forth for a time before he sought his couch. And as he watched the other two sprang upon him from behind, smothering his head in furs.

Eric fought, but only with half a heart. The years of thralldom had taught him submission, and the habit was not easily broken. Still, he fought. But they bore him down and stunned him, and so carried him away.

Swiftly across the great hall they took him, and to the door of the sacrificial chamber. They carried him inside, where Svend and Magnus were waiting.

"Work swiftly!" Magnus ordered. "Bind him well, and stuff his mouth with fur!"

Again Eric fought, for his moment of semiconsciousness had passed. But again they bore him down and worked their will. Thongs lashed his ankles and legs and fastened his arms at his sides. His mouth was stuffed with a piece of fur, which was bound there, so that he could do no more than groan. And then he was picked up again and carried.

It was dark in the sacrificial chamber, save for the light from a single torch. At one end of the room stood the altar, and upon it the bowl filled with twigs, into which the blood of the sacrifice was to be poured. Human blood it would be this time with which the warriors would sprinkle themselves. And Svend himself would act as priest, since there was none other handy. Priests of Odin were scarce since King Olaf had forbidden sacrifices.

"It is time!" Svend said. "Summon the men, but let them come quietly."

Magnus and the three who had made Eric captive went to do his bidding. The chosen ones were waiting for the signal. One by one they slipped across the great hall, and through the door of the sacrificial chamber. Slowly they gathered, while Svend the Bloody stood back against a wall, his arms folded across his chest, a sharp knife in his belt.

Behind the altar was a stone table, and upon this Eric was stretched and lashed, and the kirtle was cut from his left breast. Eric knew what it meant, for he had been in the chamber before. He tugged at his bonds, and found that they would not give. They were proof even against his great strength. He tugged while the perspiration stood out upon his brow, while his breath came in painful little gasps, and after a time he groaned and ceased his struggling. He knew that it would avail him nothing. He could only wait for the end.

Edvard Haakonsson had heard the slight noise at the door of his chamber when Eric had been taken. For a moment he did not get from his couch, only remained there listening. But presently he got up and walked across to the door, and opened it.

He was surprised to find that Eric was not stretched before the door, as he was usually. And, as he watched, he saw men slipping furtively across the great hall and disappearing into another chamber, and knew them for warriors.

Here was a thing that needed investigation, Edvard thought. He knew that the room into which they had slipped was the sacrificial chamber. And he knew that it had a small rear door through which, in days gone by, the priests had entered.

He did not even put on his mail or helmet. He had no weapon save the knife at his belt, but he was not thinking of combat. Across the great hall he slipped, opened one of the huge doors, and went outside.

It was black night, which suited him. He slipped around the corner of the great house, past the sleeping thralls about the dying fire. So he reached the rear, and fumbled in the darkness until he found the little door.

Cautiously, he opened it and slipped within. He found himself far behind the altar, in front of which a torch was burning. He saw the sacrificial table—and the body of a man stretched upon it.

Then he realized the horror, though he wondered why his kinsman had not invited him to witness the ceremony. Toward the altar he went like a shadow, stopping now and then to listen. He could hear the voices of Svend and Magnus, some distance from that terrible slab of stone on which a human being lay helpless.

"There are four more to come," Svend said. "When they are in, bar the door!"

Edvard Haakonsson, almost stretched upon the floor, crept closer to the stone table. He reached it, and raised himself slowly and carefully. His hands went up and felt of the man's bonds. His head came up, and his eyes looked into the wide staring eyes of Eric the Dumb!

Again he listened, and heard another man enter the chamber. The time was scant, he knew. His dagger came out, and he slashed at the things, at the same time warning Eric, by a pressure of his other hand, to keep quiet.

Again he slashed. Eric started to rise, but Edvard thrust him back. But finally the thongs were cut, and he pulled the man off the stone table and toward him. Eric tugged at the gag, but Edvard Haakonsson motioned him to silence, and led the way to the little door. They slipped through it, and into the night.

"Go into the woods' " Edvard commanded. "Let no man see you! But when we go to the house of Harald the Just, do you follow us through the forest, keeping out of sight. You can find me at Harald's."

Eric had torn the gag away. Now he knelt quickly, and pressed his lips to Edvard's sandal.

"Master—master!" he breathed.

"Go!" Edvard said.

Eric the Dumb fled into the darkness. A band of sheep had settled for the night at the rear of the great house, and Edvard seized a lamb. Once more he crept through the little door. All the men had entered now, he guessed. Svend the Bloody was commencing the ritual. In a short time he would be at the altar.

With the thongs which had bound Eric the Dumb, Edvard lashed the lamb to the stone table. Once more, like a shadow, he crept back to the little door. He passed through it, and closed it softly behind him. The words of Svend the Bloody rang through the sacrificial chamber as he advanced toward the altar, the others close behind him.

"Mighty Odin, grant us victory!" he mouthed. "Great Thor, give us the added strength of thy hammer! To thee we make the sacrifice of sacrifices!"

"The sacrifice of sacrifices!" the others chanted.

"Aid us, Mighty Odin, against those who would be thy foes! Give us the victory complete! Send us back again to our homes, else take us to thy bosom and grant us the glories of Valhalla! With this blood of a living thing—"

He stopped; he gasped; a smothered curse left his lips. He had reached the stone table, and his knife was poised to strike. But no human sacrifice was there—only a lamb!

"A trick—" Magnus began.

"Can a man change to a lamb?" Svend demanded.

"But how could he escape? Are the gods frowning upon us?"

"Fool!" Svend cried. "Dare you let such words leave your tongue? Human or lamb, yet must we have our sacrifice. Stand back!"

He continued the ritual, and men sprinkled the blood over their heads. And then Svend, furious, threw open the door of the chamber, and stalked into the great hall, followed by the others. Straight to the door of Edvard's chamber he went, and hurled it open.

A single torch was burning within. It showed Edvard Haakonsson as he raised his head sleepily and then struggled out of the furs, pretending to reach for his weapons.

"What is this?" he cried.

"It is nothing, kinsman," Svend the Bloody replied. "We were crossing the hall, and thought we heard you cry out."

"Perhaps," said the Ax Thrower, "I was dreaming of battle. Yet why should I dream of battle when to-morrow we start on a mission of peace?"

TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT WEEK

CHAPTER X.

THE HOUSE OF HARALD.

SOON after the coming of the dawn, Svend the Bloody gave the sign for departure.

Out along the forest trail they rode, Svend and Magnus in the lead, and Edvard Haakonsson riding but a pace behind them. Cheering thralls urged them on their way. It was a splendid company, the pick of Svend's warriors, with their best armor and weapons, a handful of his most beautiful shield maidens led by Brynhild, and thralls in fresh kirtles—the best and strongest and most handsome thralls.

Those left behind looked upon the departure with varying emotions, for all of them would have gone. Some of them, notably the men-at-arms, expected to go shortly, since there had been whisperings, and one of Magnus's most trusted men had been left behind in command. Even Rolf, the stolid shipmaster, gave evidences of excitement and breathed like an old war horse, which was unusual in itself.

The march was taken leisurely and in comfort through the cool woods. And when the dusk came the company was within a short distance of Harald's house. They camped in the dark forest aisles, building huge fires and roasting meat. No tent was pitched save that of Svend, for the others chose to sleep on the ground, on couches of pine needles.

Again they were up at dawn. Svend sent two men ahead to announce their approach to Harald, and then gave commands that everything be put in condition for a proper showing. Wherefore, weapons were scoured again and secretly sharpened, helmets were burnished, and armor newly rubbed.

The bright sun was high in the heavens when finally they came to the great clearing before the house of Harald the Just. The gates and doors stood wide open. Thralls in holiday attire ran among the buildings. Gay banners had been flung from the walls.

Svend the Bloody led his gallant company to within a short distance of the gates, and there he stopped and waited. Harald the Just came forth to greet him, his men at his back. Svend dismounted and walked slowly forward, his face inscrutable, Magnus stalking at his side.

"Hail, Svend!" cried Harald the Just, raising his hand. "Hail Svend, my neighbor!"

"Hail!" Svend replied.

"Do you come in peace or war?"

Svend seemed to hesitate a moment at the question, but only for a moment. He was committed to this nefarious enterprise, and he could not retreat now.

"We come in peace!" he said.

"Then is my house yours, Svend the Bloody! Enter, and order as you will, and your company with you. Your maidens will be greeted by those of my household, your warriors by mine. There is food for your thralls, and places of rest. This evening we feast!"

Now there was a tumult as Svend's company dismounted and thralls led the horses away. Men-at-arms pretended a friendship that they scarcely felt. Though their words were fair when they mingled, yet they watched one another closely, for the two houses had long been enemies, and such things are not forgotten in the passing of a few days.

Edvard Haakonsson entered the great hall with Svend and the others, and Harald turned for a moment to greet him particularly. The Ax Thrower chaffed because he was compelled by courtesy to stand there with the others and exchange meaningless phrases. It was Thyra his eyes sought, and none other.

He glanced around the great room, at its giant fireplace, its long tables already placed for the evening feast. Toward one end there was a short flight of stone steps that led up to a landing and a heavy door. Edvard Haakonsson sensed that this led to the women's quarters, and that Thyra's room was there.

Yet it was quite some time before he saw her. Svend and his men were assigned to quarters, and mingled with Harald's men. Svend and Magnus retired as though to wash the dust of the journey from their hands and faces, but in reality to whisper more of the plot.

"The men were to have left a short time behind us, jarl, and to have passed the night in the woods," Magnus said. "They will be at the edge of the forest by nightfall, or a little before."

"Some straying thrall of Harald's may see them and give the alarm."

"Any straying thrall who sees them will see nothing more on this earth," Magnus growled. "I have given orders covering everything."

"You have planned the signal?"

"I have, jarl. When you signal to me, then will I pass the signal on to the others. When we strike here in Harald's house, the men in the woods will rush in before Harald and his men-at-arms realize what is happening."

"Make certain that you forget nothing," Svend directed. "And Brynhild must be warned at the proper moment, so that the maidens may rush out of harm's way. This is an enterprise in which we must win or die! Great Thor, give us strength!"

"Brynhild, shall be warned."

"And—my kinsman—"

"I shall attend to the black jarl," Magnus promised, his face growing suddenly dark. "Between Edvard Haakonsson and myself there is a blood feud."

"Why?" Svend demanded. "For reasons other than mine?"

"Brynhild!" Magnus said.

"Ha! You want the maiden? Then you shall have her, Magnus, when this business is at an end!"

Down in the great hall Edvard the Ax Thrower had been greeting men, but meantime making his way slowly along the wall and toward the landing he had seen. And after a time the door at the top of the flight of steps was opened slowly, and Thyra stepped out.

For a moment she stood looking down at the scene of confusion, then she caught sight of the Ax Thrower, and her face flushed and her eyes glistened. Her hands clutched at her breast, which rose and fell with emotion. And then she slowly descended toward him, and he went forward to greet her.

"Thyra!" he breathed.

"Edvard! My Ax Thrower!"

"All is well with you?"

"All is well," she replied.

"I have been counting the days."

"And I also," she whispered. "I am going to feed my hounds. You may come with me."

It was a clever subterfuge to get alone with him, and he realized it. Across the great hall they went, men bowing before him and the jarl's daughter. Out into the open they walked, where Thyra beckoned some thralls and bade them fetch meat. And so they went to one end of the great building, where a pack of hounds waited.

She left him for a moment, took chunks of meat from the thralls, and walked out among the hounds. They leaped around her, but only in play. They sprang back when she commanded them, and waited until she tossed the meat.

All but one of the thralls retired, and Thyra walked back to Edvard's side.

"It seems the lifetime of a man since I have seen you," he said.

"It seems long to me, too."

"Is this the time to speak to your father?"

"We must wait," she said. "A little longer must we keep our love a secret. Wait until my father is sure that Svend the Bloody means sincere friendship. But do you be with my father as much as it is possible, and teach him to trust you. Perhaps, before you go away again, the word may be said."

She looked up at him with love shining in her eyes, and he would have kissed her had he been sure that no one would have seen. For a moment he did hold her hand.

But they were not alone in the world. Not that the thrall mattered, for he was not to be taken into consideration, but there was another who watched with eyes flaming in hate.

Brynhild had seen Edvard Haakonsson greet Thyra, and had been watching him before the greeting. Her woman's intuition told her the truth. And when they left the house she followed at a little distance, though careful not to be seen by them. And she was standing at the corner of the great house now, watching the love light as it danced in their eyes. A moment she watched, then turned swiftly, her face black with rage, and reëntered the great hall.

Magnus came from his visit with Svend, and the shield maiden claimed his ear.

"The black jarl is in love with Harald's daughter," she whispered. "I have been watching them. He prefers that white face to me!"

"They are of a kind—small and soft," Magnus replied. "As we are of a kind—big and strong."

"That he turns from me to her!"

"Yet is your revenge near," Magnus whispered. "Already I have spoken to Svend, and he has promised me your hand. And before the sun rises again I shall have claimed it."

"You mean—"

"That Edvard Haakonsson never will wed the jarl's daughter—or any other woman," Magnus said. "At a later time I shall tell you more. Be near me, and watch me closely, when the feast begins!"

She nodded assent, and Magnus walked away. And through the door came Edvard and Thyra again, and they stopped at the bottom of the flight of stone steps, and for a moment whispered together. Then the jarl's daughter hurried up to her room, while Edvard Haakonsson, his face radiant, turned aside to mingle with the men.

CHAPTER XI.

WITCH'S BREW.

THROUGHOUT the remainder of the day great preparations were made for the big feast that was to cement a friendship. Harald the Just entertained Svend in his own quarters, while his lieutenants made sure that everything was in readiness.

The warriors mingled, tried tests of skill, played at rough sports, and bathed in the stream at the back of Harald's house. The shield maidens gossiped and rested. Svend's thralls aided their brothers of the household of Harald, stealing scraps of food when they could. None knew better than the thralls the glory of a great feast.

In her own room Thyra consulted with Solveig, her old nurse.

Solveig was a wrinkled hag of uncertain years, a daughter of thralls. But she had been selected as nurse when Thyra's mother had died and Harald had refused to wed again. And between the jarl's daughter and the wrinkled nurse was a love that was deep and understanding.

And now, as to a mother, Thyra went to Solveig, and with flaming cheeks and bright eyes confessed her secret. The ancient nurse grunted and sat in a corner of the room, rocking back and forth on her heels. After a time she went to the fireplace and threw sticks on the fire, and squatted there and peered into the flames.

"What do you see, Solveig?" Thyra asked, kneeling beside her.

"His love is good," the nurse grunted.

"I give you thanks for those sweet words."

"But there will be trouble."

"Trouble?" Thyra gasped.

"Danger! Blood will flow!"

Thyra stopped her with a cry. "Solveig, you frighten me!" she said.

"I read it in the flames, jarl's daughter."

"And what else?"

"I cannot see well. But his love is good, though danger will come."

"Danger to him?"

"I cannot tell. It is growing dark," the old nurse said, and got up and left the fireplace.

Thyra, the jarl's daughter, paced around the room. The words of the nurse had troubled her. She was a Christian, yet had not entirely shaken herself free of witch lore. And old Solveig many times had spoken of things that were to happen, and they did.

For a time she was quiet with her troubles; then she opened the door and looked down into the great hall. Edvard Haakonsson was not far away, and when she descended the steps he hurried forward to join her. Brynhild saw them, and slipped near. Crouching at the side of the steps, she could hear.

"Beloved!" Edvard whispered.

"I am troubled, Ax Thrower," Thyra said. "My nurse can look into the future. She has looked this day. She says that your love is good—but that there is danger near."

"Danger?" he repeated.

"Grave danger, from her manner. She told me that blood will flow. I asked her whether the danger was to you, but she could not tell."

"Do not let her words trouble you."

"But they do, Edvard, and I cannot help it. I fear for you so. Attend, beloved! Near the house lives a witch, an old hag who has the gift, men say. I—I cannot believe in such things, yet she has some wonderful power. If you could see her, perhaps she could tell you more."

"You would have me visit a witch—you, a Christian?"

"Only that we may look into the future for love's sake," she whispered in reply. "That is not the same thing as having her brew confusion to your enemies. You follow the forest trail, Ax Thrower, and after a time you come to a stream. Her hut is beside the stream. It is not a long distance. You could return in time for the feast."

A moment he looked at her, then he smiled.

"It is a command, Thyra," he said. "I go at once. And do you return to your nurse, and not worry about this business."

She glided back up the steps, and Edvard Haakonsson hurried from the great hall. Brynhild searched until she found Magnus, and called him aside. She spoke rapidly and in whispers.

"He has walked into my hands," Magnus said. "I'll attend to him."

But Magnus was troubled as he hurried away to call one of his trusted men-at-arms. For the warriors even now should be approaching through the woods, and Edvard Haakonsson might meet them. Then would the fat be in the fire. So Magnus gave his trusted man orders, and the fellow left the house and made his way slowly to the edge of the forest. And when he had reached it he plunged from sight to seek those coming from Svend's place.

Edvard the Ax Thrower found the end of the forest trail and made his way along it rapidly. It was no more than a leafy tunnel, the bottom worn smooth by the feet of thralls. Soon he was in the stillness of the deep woods, where there was naught to be heard save the whispering of the wind through the trees and sounds from forest life.

On he went, and presently he reached the stream. He found the witch's hut half hidden by brush, and approached it slowly. There was a fire before it, and over the fire a large pot, but the door of the hut was closed and there was no human to be seen.

Edvard hesitated a moment, and then went up to the door. He took his dagger out of his girdle and pounded upon the door with the hilt of the weapon. A croaking voice sounded behind him.

"What does the jarl wish?" it asked.

Edvard Haakonsson whirled at the sound. The witch had slipped from the woods, and now stood beside the boiling pot, her thin hair stringing down from her head, her bent body supported by a crooked stick. She leaned forward and tilted her wrinkled chin, and her tiny eyes gleamed at him.

"What does the black jarl wish?" she asked. "Never have I seen you before, yet I knew that you would come."

"How did you know that?" Edvard asked.

"Old Dagmar knows many things that other folks do not. If you have nothing to ask of me, go your way."

"If you know so much," Edvard said, "perhaps you know what knowledge I seek without me telling you."

"You would look into the future," she said.

"And can you show it me?"

"If the eyes of the jarl are good, perchance he can see for himself."

Edvard started toward the boiling pot, but she threw up her crooked stick and stopped him.

"Is there no reward?" she demanded.

The Ax Thrower laughed and gave a bracelet from his arm. The old hag cackled, drew back the stick, and motioned toward the pot.

Edvard drew nearer and looked down at the steaming mess.

"Closer!" Dagmar whispered. "Look closer, jarl! The future may be seen only by those who wish to see it."

"I see nothing but boiling stuff covered with a scum."

"Look well at the scum, jarl!" The old witch was beside him now, bending forward. "Look, jarl! You love a maid, but she soon will be in peril. You must fight to protect her. Look again, jarl! There is blood in the air. There is strife abroad. Before the night is over, men will die. Your own life is threatened, and that of the maid you love."

Edvard Haakonsson gave a cry and covered his eyes with his arm. Whether he saw it or not, he believed that he did. He bent forward again and looked at the foaming stuff in the pot.

"Beware those you think are your friends!" the old hag croaked. "Put not your trust in any man during the night that is coming. Even now the forces of evil are gathering. Guard well yourself and the maid you love."

"Tell me more!" he commanded.

"I cannot tell you what is not shown, jarl. Sharpen your ax. I can tell you that much—sharpen your ax!"

"More!" he commanded again, looking at the scum in the pot.

"Then, look, jarl."

"I see nothing."

"That is because you cannot read. Let Dagmar read it for you. Jarl you are now, in your own right. Double jarl you may be soon."

"What is the meaning of that?"

"Ruler over two jarldoms," she said. "That is all, mighty one!"

He backed away from the pot, looked at her, then whirled and darted back along the forest trail. He felt forced to believe. Ruler over two jarldoms! Did that mean his own and the jarldom of Harald the Just? Was Thyra's father to be slain, and he to rule by virtue of marriage with Harald's daughter?

Dagmar predicted strife. Did she mean that Svend would break the law of hospitality and commence an attack? But he put aside that thought as unworthy. Perhaps the danger to himself would come from personal enemies, he thought. And she might have meant that he would rule over two jarldoms after Svend's death, as was to be expected if he outlived Svend.

He hurried along the trail, his head bent on his chest. It was almost dark now, and soon the feast would begin, and he had to be there for that, and wanted a private word with Thyra first. He sprang across a brook, darted over rocks, and once more followed the well worn trail.

And suddenly men sprang out at him, ovewhelmed him, and made him prisoner before he could reach his dagger. Then he was pulled back into the brush, still struggling and trying to fight. A skin was thrown over his head, half smothering him, blinding him.

"Fiends!" he gasped. "What treachery is this?"

But the skin over his head muffled his voice.

CHAPTER XII.

MASKS REMOVED.

HIS captors held him fast upon the ground while they lashed his ankles with thongs and fastened his wrists behind his back. And then they lifted him and carried him for a distance through the woods, and finally put him down again. He could hear the whisperings of many men and the crackling of burning twigs—could feel the heat of a small fire.

He twisted and struggled, and after a time one of the men went forward and whipped the skin from around his head. Edvard Haakonsson whirled to one side and managed to sit up against the bole of a tree.

"What means this treachery?" he demanded.

In the semigloom he could see nothing at first, save the dusky and uncertain forms of moving men. That they were warriors he saw at a glance, for axes flashed in the reflection from the fire, and he saw shields and spears and bows.

None of them gave him answer. He rested for a moment and then managed to get to his feet, and there he leaned against the tree and tugged at his bonds, to find that his captors had done their work well indeed.

"What means this?" he demanded once more.

A man stepped up beside him, and Edvard saw in surprise that he was one of Svend's warriors, a lieutenant who had been left behind at Svend's house.

"We have but obeyed orders, jarl," he said. "Do not hold it against us."

"What orders? And who are these men? What do you here?"

"One comes who will tell you all," the warrior replied.

"You were told so to take me?"

"We were so told, jarl; commanded to make a captive of you as you came back through the woods."

"Loose me instantly!" Edvard commanded. "Whose orders can be greater than mine?"

"Svend is our jarl."

"Then these orders came from Svend?" Edvard asked in surprise.

"Not from Svend, perhaps, but with his sanction," the warrior replied. "One will come soon to explain it all."

Edvard thought on that for a moment, but he was not compelled to think for long. A guard called a low-voiced warning and was answered, and Magnus strode into the little clearing by the fire.

"Magnus!" There was venom in Edvard's voice now. "What means this treachery?"

Magnus leered at him and stood close, his fists braced against his hips.

"It is by Svend's permission," he said.

Why am I taken captive like an enemy?" Edvard demanded. "Did you issue the order?"

"I did, jarl!"

"By what authority?"

"By the permission of Svend the Bloody, I have said."

"What means it?"

"Now we come to the question," Magnus declared, stepping a pace closer.

"I demand an answer!"

"It is unusual for a prisoner to demand, but under the circumstances, I am disposed to reply," Magnus said. His words and manner were without respect, yet he felt sure of his ground now. "You saw fit to take a stroll through the woods. It was intended that you should remain in the big house. For, strolling through the woods, you met with something of which you should not have known—these good warriors of Svend's."

"What means their presence here?"

"Can you not guess?" Magnus asked. "Did you think that Svend the Bloody meant to cement friendship with Harald the Just? This kind invitation of Harald's for a visit but opened the way."

"You mean treachery?" Edvard gasped.

"I mean that when the feast begins, jarl, a signal will be given. And then our men in the house, and these of our forces outside will rush to combat and work their will upon Harald and his place."

"You mean an attack?"

"More than that, jarl—a victory for Odin and Thor! You were not told, because Svend feared to trust you, and with good reason, it seems. For you have looked upon Harald's daughter with eyes of love. One has observed you. Even now you have been paying a visit to some witch at her command. You might take it amiss that Svend slay Harald and wreck his house. Love ofttimes makes a fool of a man and causes him to forget his kin."

"And would I want to forget my kinsman if he did such a thing! " Edvard Haakonsson declared, hotly. "Does not Svend know the laws of hospitality?"

"He is big enough man to break them, when it serves his purpose to do so," Magnus said.

"No man is big enough to do that," the black jarl declared. "Loose me!"

"It is not time," Magnus said.

"What mean you?"

"To Thor shall be the victory! And every good soldier knows the value of surprise. You love the maid, and your heart is not in our plans. Were you to be freed, you might rush to the house of Harald and give the alarm!"

"It is true that I might."

"So here you remain, a prisoner, until the signal for attack is given. Then you will be freed and may join in the battle. But our plans cannot be wrecked when they have gone so far."

"I shall hold you to account for this!"

"When Thor triumphs, then I shall be at your service, jarl! I return now to the house. Rest easy in your bonds, for the signal soon will be given."

Without another word Magnus turned his back disrespectfully and disappeared in the darkness.

Once more Edvard Haakonsson tugged at his bonds and knew that he could not win free. He slumped down to the ground, against the bole of the tree. The others gave him scant attention, seemingly afraid to approach. But they watched him from a little distance, to see that he did not escape.

And now the horror of the thing claimed him, and he knew what the witch had meant. Svend had made his plans boldly. Harald would be off guard, expecting friendship, and would receive a blade. The men of Svend the Bloody would find things easy for them. Harald and his warriors would be struck down, and his thralls. Flames would complete the work. And Edvard guessed that the tale would be told afterward how the quarrel had been started by Harald.

And Thyra!

His heart sank when he thought of her. She might be hurt in the battle with none there to protect her. Even though she escaped, would she look once again at Svend's nephew?

In that moment Edvard Haakonsson knew that he had turned against his uncle and renounced kinship. He determined to fight on the side of Harald, though it cost him his life. He would protect the woman he loved, even against Svend the Bloody. For Svend was breaking sacred laws in the name of Odin and Thor.

Again he tugged at his bonds, and knew that he could not free himself. But he did not entirely despair. When the attack began, then would he be freed. He could rush to the house with the others, and wield blade. At least, he could take his stand in front of Thyra, and serve her to the end.

The warriors about him seemed like shadows in the woods. The tiny fire had died down to a mass of glowing embers. Svend's men knew that he was secure, and were giving him no attention. They were looking to their weapons, eager for the fray, talking of the loot they would have and the enemies they would slay. Curses for Harald and his house were upon their lips.

Edvard Haakonsson heard a slight noise behind him, but thought nothing of it. Some animal of the forest, attracted by the fire, he believed. But presently he heard a hiss, and his body stiffened.

"Master!" came a whisper. "It is Eric! I followed as you said!"

Edvard Haakonsson thrilled at the words.

"The dagger in my belt—take it!" he whispered. "Loose me!"

A hand came out of the darkness behind the trees and tugged at the belt. Edvard felt the dagger slip loose.

"Have a care!" he warned, his lips scarcely moving. "And work with speed!"

He felt the thongs around his wrist give as they were slashed. His hands came free. He reached back and took the dagger from Eric, and then waited a bit.

"Be ready to run, Eric," he whispered, "as soon as I have freed my ankles."

He made sure that none of the warriors was looking at him. Then his hands came swiftly from behind his back, and he slashed with the dagger. The thongs fell from his ankles, and he sprang to his feet.

A warrior turned and saw him, gave cry, and several men plunged toward the black jarl. But they were too late. Edvard Haakonsson crashed through the brush and so gained the trail, Eric the Dumb at his heels, and rushed along it toward the house of Harald.

An arrow sped past him, but he heeded it not. He bent lower, ran swifter. The shouts of pursuit died down. On he ran, stumbling over tangling vines and rocks. And finally he came to the edge of the clearing before the house of Harald—but too late!

For even as he dashed from the woods a man standing beside the great gates waved a torch above his head. From the big hall came the din of combat. And from the forest poured the warriors of Svend the Bloody to join in the fray!

CHAPTER XIII.

ROAR OF BATTLE.

HARALD THE JUST had prepared a feast of feasts. Torches were set thick against the walls. On the dais was Harald's seat, and beside it one especially constructed for Svend. Then came one for Edvard Haakonsson, and down the side of the long table places for the men according to their rank. To Harald's left were the seats for the women, commencing with his fair daughter. Next Thyra was a place for Brynhild, chief of Svend's maidens.

Odors of roast meat filled the great room as the guests gathered. Svend the Bloody walked across with Harald, and took his seat. Magnus, just returned from the woods, gave Svend a look that spoke volumes, and then turned away. But he whispered to Brynhild, and in turn she spoke to her maidens, bidding them flee into the woods if trouble began.

"Your kinsman is absent," Harald said to Svend.

Thyra, too, had noticed his absence, but she thought only that he had been delayed on his visit to the witch.

"Perhaps he will come soon," Svend replied to Harald. "You need not await him. He is a man of moods, and no doubt is out by one of the fires watching the thralls at play."

So Harald gave the sign, and the company was seated. A procession of thralls entered, carrying huge platters of meat and heaping the long tables with food, and filling the goblets. Roast oxen, swine, sheep, and fowls were placed before the guests, but not horse meat, since Harald was a Christian.

Standing in his place, Harald the Just made sure that everything was as he had ordered, and men and women waited for him to speak before eating.

"This is the feast I long have wished to serve," Harald said. "It means that friendship and not war shall abide hereafter between us and our neighbors. Too long have we met only for violence, and now let us meet in peace."

Svend's face remained inscrutable, but it seemed that Magnus was like to choke. All eyes were upon Harald the Just.

"Jarl," he said, turning toward Svend the Bloody, "our religions are not the same, so we must be tolerant toward each other. It is a custom of the Christians, when they sit down to meat, to give thanks to their God for his bounty. I and my people observe this custom."

"You would observe it now?" Svend cried.

"No insult is intended, jarl."

"Yet I see one in it," Svend declared hotly. He thought that here was an excuse ready made for him. "We are your guests, yet you would hurl your queer ceremonies at us. You would pray to your strange God in our presence!"

"Peace!" Harald said, holding up his hand.

"How can there be peace in the face of this?" Svend cried. "Think you I am a craven jarl to let such a thing pass unnoticed? Think you I would let an ancient enemy flaunt me so?"

"Peace, neighbor!"

But Svend the Bloody sprang to his feet. His eyes suddenly were blazing with the frenzy of a fanatic.

"I hold to the gods of my fathers!" he cried. "I recognize none other, nor allow others to do so in my presence! Thor!"

It was the signal. Magnus turned quickly and waved his hand to a man standing near the door. That man sprang outside, grasped a torch, and whirled it thrice above his head.

"Thor!" cried Magnus.

"Thor! Odin and Thor!" shouted Svend's men.

Svend the Bloody sprang backward and darted from the dais, and a waiting warrior handed him sword and shield. Back to the walls darted the men, to grasp their shields and weapons.

"Thor! Strike for Thor!" Svend shouted. "Thor is with us!"

And so the battle began.

There was a deal of turmoil, yet not so much as might have been expected. Svend and some of his men noticed at the moment that weapons had appeared as though by a miracle in the hands of Harald's men. And then Svend guessed that Harald had feared this thing, and had prepared for it, so as not to be caught off guard.

The women scattered like leaves before a high wind. Brynhild and her maidens ran for the door and won through to the woods. Harald's women ran shrieking for the stairs and the landing, Thyra among them. Up the steps they rushed, and into the rooms, and there they barred the heavy doors.

"Strike! Strike for the cross!" Harald was shouting.

Thralls ran screaming toward the doors, to be met by Svend's men and cut down. Arrows flew. Swords crashed against shields. Javelins flashed across the great hall. Spears clattered against the walls.

Into this mêlée rushed Edvard Haakonsson, his face aflame with rage. A single glance was enough to show him that the thing had gone beyond remedy. Already dead and wounded men were stretched on the floor. The great tables had been overturned. Harald's food was scattered, and not even a hound stopped to claim it.

Edvard's first thought was for Thyra, and he saw with happiness that none of the women remained in the great hall. He would grasp a shield, he decided, and fight his way to the bottom of the steps, there to guard her.

He picked up the first shield that came to his hand, and drew his sword. Close behind him Eric armed himself from a dead man. Together, side by side, they fought their way across the wide room, struggling to reach the bottom of the stairs.

And now Edvard Haakonsson discovered a queer thing—that Svend's men were trying to cut him down. There could be no mistake about it. Men who knew him slashed at him as they passed. Once he caught sight of the grim face of Magnus, and saw the evil gloating in it.

And Harald's men, naturally, turned their blades against him also. Edvard Haakonsson stood alone, surrounded by his foes. Save for Eric the Dumb, there was none to stand back to back with him.

Days before he had sensed that Svend loved him not. He had not taken the trouble to seek the reason for it, nor did he now. He whirled his blade around his head and started to carve his way to the bottom of the flight of steps.

Harald's men had shown themselves to be no weaklings. Even to the frenzied Svend it appeared that Harald's warriors had been prepared, and that they were to be reckoned with in the battle. With the men from the woods in the place, the forces were about equal.

But Harald's men were fighting on territory they knew well, and their cause was just. They rallied to their chieftain's call and smote their enemies. Man after man went down before them. Svend the Bloody called a rally in vain.

Edvard Haakonsson attempted to avoid slaying, since he did not wish to cut down one of the house of Harald, nor a man of his uncle's. But soon he found that he could not. They pressed him into a corner, and he won free with Eric. He saw Magnus fighting to get near him, and realized the man's intent.

"Thor! Thor!" Svend was shouting. "Thor, give us strength!"

Escaping thralls had met with Svend's thralls, and outside the house they were fighting. Outbuildings burst into flame. Shrieks and cries of pain and howls for mercy rent the air.

Edvard Haakonsson found himself in a corner again, and started to follow a wall. He wanted only to be near Thyra, should there be danger for her, either from Svend's men or the flames. From the corners of his eyes he saw that the battle was slowly going against Svend the Bloody. Harald's men stood firm, and their blades were red with the blood of their foes.

"Thor! Thor!" Svend's men bellowed.

Through the cutting, slashing throng Edvard fought his way, crying to Eric to follow. He was more than halfway across the big room now. If he could reach the steps, he felt that he could hold them against all comers, unless an arrow shot him down.

And suddenly he found himself on the edge of a group of Svend's men, and Svend himself in command. Svend had been trying to reach Harald the Just, but had not been able to do so. Harald was against the opposite wall, fighting as well as any of his followers. He turned and looked at them, his eyes flaming.

"Thor! Thor!" rang the shouts.

"The cross!"

There was no pretense now. It was Thor against the cross, and all men knew it. And they knew also that Svend the Bloody had planned this thing. But Svend's plans were not working out as he had expected. He was separated from Magnus, or he would have given fresh orders. He saw his men falling on every side. Svend had been in too many battles not to read the outcome. Harald and his men were to be victors.

So this was the end! To die was bad enough, but to die at the hand of an ancient enemy was worse. In that moment Svend the Bloody became a maniac. The hot blood surged through his veins.

"Strike!" he shrieked. "Strike for Thor!"

And so Edvard Haakonsson met him face to face.

"Kinsman! Call away your men!" the black jarl cried. "You are outdone! It is a penalty for the treachery you tried!"

"You—" Svend the Bloody whirled toward him. "A curse on the day you came out of the south!" he cried. "Man with the heart of a woman!"

He flung the others aside and his blade was raised. Edvard Haakonsson darted backward, to save his life and to keep from slaying his uncle.

Svend would have followed, but he did not. For as the others turned to meet fresh foes and let Svend settle this family affair, Svend found himself confronted by a new enemy—a man with blazing eyes and protruding tongue, Eric the Dumb.

It was enough for Eric that he had seen Svend raise blade against Edvard Haakonsson. But there was more than that. Far back in his memory Eric had a flash of a scene in Svend's own house, when the Bloody One had slain a thrall with a single blow of his fist.

Eric raised the blade he held. Backward he sprang, and then launched himself forward. He had no method of fighting, but he had great strength. More through good fortune than skill did he avoid Svend's biting blade. And his own swept through the arc—and Svend the Bloody died!

Then Eric whirled around to find that his master was hard pressed by a circle of foes. He bellowed like a beast and charged. Blades bit at him and brought the blood—but they did not stop him. He won to Edvard's side, and together they fought their way on to the wall.

"See!" Edvard commanded. "That door! Behind it, Eric, is the maid I love! Stand before the door, and let no man enter! I will care for myself!"

There was no need of a second command. Perhaps Eric did not understand the full import of it, but he had heard the words. He was to stand on the landing at the top of the flight of steps, before the door, and allow no man to ascend.

He charged through the crowd of frenzied, fighting men, and won to the steps. He cleared them of foes, and took up his station. Below him the battle continued. Svend's men were in little groups now, their back to the walls, being slowly cut down. Magnus was still in the fighting, but his cries failed to rally the men who remained. The battle was lost, and they knew it well. And in the face of outraged hospitality they could expect no quarter from Harald's men. They could only fight on until they died. Like other men before them, they had followed an unworthy leader, and now were to pay for it.

For an instant Magnus found himself alone. He glanced quickly around the room. He saw the flight of steps and the landing at the top of them, and the door beyond. He saw Eric, too, but thought nothing of that.

If he could force his way up those steps perhaps he could manage to break into the room, he thought. There he could barricade himself, possibly escape, possibly even find the jarl's daughter and hold her as hostage for his own freedom after the fight.

He rushed to the steps and up them he started. Eric the Dumb growled a menace, and Magnus snarled his laughter. Often he had cuffed Eric aside when Eric had been a thrall. But it was a different Eric he faced now—Eric, the free man, who was remembering the wrongs he had suffered at the hands of many, including Magnus; Eric, who had been commanded by Edvard Haakonsson to let none up the steps and through the door.

Magnus whirled his blade and advanced, and Eric met him squarely. And thus they fought on the landing, while Edvard the Ax Thrower, watching from a little distance, struggled to get to the scene. Magnus, he believed, meant danger to Thyra.

Never before in his life had Svend's big lieutenant been so surprised as he was now. He faced a maniac who had no skill with the blade, but who had great strength and determination. He felt himself starting to give way, and called all his skill and courage into being.

Again he attacked, and Eric swung his blade in a great arc and struck him down. A startled expression came into Magnus's face. He braced himself against the wall. The wound was a bad one, but not mortal. And so once more he rushed to the attack.

But Edvard Haakonsson was at the foot of the flight of steps now. He shouted to Eric, but Eric did not hear. The Dumb One exposed himself to make another great sweep of his blade, and this time it bit home, and Magnus toppled and fell headlong down the steps.

The Ax Thrower was beside Eric in an instant. Now that the battle below was ebbing, now that he had won his way across the hall, he wanted to make certain of Thyra's safety. He rushed to the door, and tried it. It was fastened upon the inside, and he knew that it was useless to call—that she could not hear him above the din. He would have to break in.

"Guard the steps!" he commanded Eric.

An arrow sped past his head and thudded into the door, and a spear followed. Harald's men had seen him, nor guessed his real intention. They thought only that he intended harm to the daughter of their jarl.

And Brynhild saw him, too. She had come back to the house from the woods, like a female warrior. She had crept into the great hall, to find that Svend the Bloody was dead, and that Svend's men fast were being conquered. And so she had looked around for Magnus, and for the black jarl.

So it was that she saw Magnus go down, and Edvard Haakonsson dash up the steps. And now black rage surged in her heart at the man who had turned his back on her beauty and had looked with eager eyes at the white faced daughter of the Christian jarl. She seized a spear and hurled it with all her strength.

Her aim was good, but fortune was against her and with the Ax Thrower. For as the spear sped he stepped back to hurl himself against the door. And the weapon flashed before his eyes like a streak of flame, and thudded into the breast of Eric the Dumb.

"Master! Master!" the man gasped.

He dropped to the landing, and his blood wet it. A little pool collected in front of the door. And the black jarl stepped back to hurl himself forward again.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE SIGN OF THE CROSS.

THYRA had moved mechanically and as though numbed through the tragic events of the hour.

One moment she had been sitting at table, listening to her father and wishing that Edvard the As Thrower would come to his seat. The next, men were at one another's throats, weapons were clashing, death shrieks rang out.

She scarcely knew how she managed to get away from the table. It seemed that somebody helped her at first, perhaps one of her father's men. Once, she remembered, she had stumbled and for a time had been beneath the feet of the warriors. But she managed to get to the wall and follow it to the steps, and rush up them and through the door into her own room.

Once inside, she put up the bar across the door, then turned and leaned against it, panting, frightened, her breath coming in little gasps, her bosom heaving. The din of the battle already was like a roar and beat against her ears like crashing waves on a rocky coast.

"Little one! Little one!"

Old Solveig, her nurse, hobbled toward her across the room. Solveig had not left the room, for she was old and walking a task with her. One of the thralls had carried her food, and she had been eating when the jarl's daughter had entered and barred the door.

And now Thyra turned to the old nurse as to a protector, and threw her arms around the hag.

"It is war again," she sobbed. "Svend the Bloody began it, It happened so quickly that I scarce know how it started. There was to have been peace and happiness, and now—"

"Often have I seen war and heard the clash of arms," the old nurse said. "It is the part of a woman to stand aside and wait."

"There was to have been peace! They touched hands before the king," said Thyra. "And because my father would have asked the blessing, Svend called upon Thor and shouted to his men-at-arms. Now they are fighting and dying! And I was so happy but a short time ago!"

"The young jarl—?" Solveig questioned.

"He was not at the table. I sent him to the witch and he had not returned when the trouble began."

"He is of the house of Svend!"

"But he did not know of this!" Thyra cried. "I am sure he did not know of this, if it was prearranged. He is the soul of honor."

"Many men seem so, are so, to women, but forget their honor among men."

"He did not know!" Thyra declared in faith. "I could have told if he had meant treachery. This will bring a curse upon Svend. He has violated the law of hospitality. And what will the end be?"

"A woman can but wait," old Solveig said. "You have barred the door?"

"Yes, I have barred it.”

"Then pray, little one—pray that Harald's men drive out the others. Else, if they do not, it would be better for you to plunge a knife into your bosom. Svend will not be merciful to the daughter of the jarl he hates. He might betroth you to one of his thralls."

"Solveig! Oh, it could not end so!" she cried. "If my Ax Thrower would come to help!"

"Ha! Think you he would fight against his own house?"

"He is but new come to the land."

"But the blood in his veins will speak."

"Only half of it is the blood of Svend's brother!" she declared, faithfully. "I have read his eyes, Solveig. He is good and noble! Do not ask me to doubt him!"

They were silent for a time, Thyra cringing near the door. The old nurse hobbled back to her corner, and her lips moved in prayer, and thus she remained.

Now the girl could hear the warriors clashing at the foot of the flight of steps.

"Thor! Thor!" she heard them shriek.

And because of that she deemed that Svend's men were having the better of the fighting. She did not know that sometimes losing men make the greater noise. Once she sobbed, thinking of her father and once again because of Edvard.

She could not bring herself to believe that the Ax Thrower had a part in the black treachery. Yet she looked into the future, and failed to see happiness. Though her father lived, though he and his men conquered, he would not listen to her love for Edvard Haakonsson now.

And so she sobbed, because she felt that she was losing the first and only love in her life, no matter what the outcome of the battle. And then she remembered that she was the daughter of a jarl!

Her little head was lifted quickly, and her eyes were dried. Anger flamed in them, and strength of purpose. She turned quickly and glanced around the room.

She found what she had sought. In a corner stood a great bow, such as her father's archers used, and arrows for it. It was a serviceable bow, made by one of the old men, and presented to her on the new feast day that celebrated the birth of Him they meant when they spoke of the cross.

There was a dagger in the corner, too, as could be found in every room of the great house. Thyra hurried to the corner and took up the dagger and slipped it into her girdle. Then she picked up the big bow. Her purpose was clear now. If Svend's bloody men won the battle, she would act the part of a jarl's daughter. The bow would be for the first foe who entered the room, and the dagger for herself. Never would Svend the Bloody carry her in triumph to his jarldom to make a mock of her!

But the bow was a strong one meant for a warrior, and she could not handle it. Yet she found a way. She hurried to the great fireplace, where old Solveig's little fire of twigs long since had died. And there she braced the big bow in one end, the bottom of it in a cleft between two rocks, of which the fireplace was built. The top she allowed to remain outside, pressed against the mantel. And so, holding it in the middle, she could draw it back.

She tried it, and succeeded. She placed one of the arrows on the bowstring, and drew it back with all her strength, and then let it loose again.

One shot she could make, she knew. When they battered at the door, she would draw back the arrow and hold it so, aimed at the opening. And when the first foe entered, she would let the arrow go. Then there would remain the dagger for herself.

Again she rushed across the room and crouched close beside the door. It seemed to her that the tumult of the fight had drawn nearer. She heard curses and cheering, but she could make out no words to tell her how the fight was going. Old Solveig was still praying in the corner, and Thyra made shift to say a little prayer also.

She glanced down at the floor, and recoiled. Blood was trickling beneath the door. A tiny stream of it followed a crack, and then widened to a tiny pool. She drew away from it, covering her eyes with her hands, shivering a bit. And then she remembered again that she was the daughter of a jarl!

And then there came a blow against the door, as though some warrior had hurled himself at it.

Thyra gave a little cry and rushed back to the big fireplace. She picked up the bow, put the arrow against the string, and waited. There came another thud against the door, and she heard a man's voice shouting. The door gave a little. The bar across it seemed to groan in agony.

Still another thud, and the door gave a trifle more. In a moment it would be torn open, she knew. Once more her lips moved in prayer—and then she drew back the arrow as far as her strength would permit.

Another chorus of cries came from the great hall beyond, another clash of weapons. An instant of comparative silence, and then the door was struck with a crash! Open it flew, a man in armor stood stooped in it. Through her half closed eyes, Thyra saw him. Then she let the arrow go.

Straight it went, and true it struck. The man whirled halfway around and crashed to the floor of the landing, half inside the room, half out. The dagger already was in Thyra's hand ready for use on her own tender breast. But she did not use it.

One frightened glance she gave, and then screamed with pain. For the man her arrow had struck was Edvard Haakonsson!

A moment she stood as though turned to stone. Then the dagger dropped to her feet. Across the room she flew, and down upon her knees she went, not caring that her garment soaked up the blood on the floor.

"Edvard!" she cried. "Edvard!"

She brushed against the arrow, and it fell aside, but she did not notice that. Neither did she notice that the force of the arrow had not been great enough to make it pierce his armor. He had slipped in the blood of Eric the Dumb, had crashed backward, and his head had struck. But she thought that she had killed him.

Again she cried out as though in agony. She had eyes for nothing save the man upon the floor, whose head she was trying to lift. She took off his helmet and threw it aside. The din of the battle was growing less, but she did not notice. She heard voices as though from a distance, and among them that of her father.

And then there came a touch on her arm, and at first she recoiled in horror, remembering that she had dropped the dagger. But it was her father who had touched her. He stood before her, his face stern and marked with blood. And behind him were other men of the house of Harald.

"Here is one of the viper's brood," Harald said. "If he is not dead, slay him! What do you here, my daughter?"

One of the men would have pulled Edvard outside, but she sprang to her feet and stopped him.

"Don't you understand?" she cried. "I have killed him! I braced the big bow in the fireplace, and shot the arrow. It struck his breast!"

"A worthy deed, worthy of a jarl's woman," Harald said.

"I killed him!" she wailed.

"Not yet is he dead," said one of the men.

"Then away with him!" Harald cried. "Work your will on him! Scum of a pagan—"

Once more she was down upon her knees, pillowing Edvard's head against her breast.

"No—no!" she cried.

"What is this?" Harald's voice was stern.

"Don't you understand? I have wounded him. And you must not touch him. I—I love him, my father!"

"Love him?" Harald the Just cried. "Love one of the brood of Svend?"

"Since that day at the fair," she said, weeping again. "I love him, and he loves me. We have spoken of it. Perhaps it was wrong to keep it from you. But he wanted to ask you to-night, ask you to let him wed with me."

"Can this be my daughter? Are your wits asleep?" Harald cried. "Scum, he is! One of Svend's brood!"

"Nor is he!" she screeched. "He is new come to the land!"

"A part of the black treachery of tonight!"

"He did not know! I am sure that he did not know!" she cried. "He was not at the table when it happened—"

"He has turned your head, this pretty jarl! But we'll have an end of him!”

"Then it will be the end of me, too, my father! For if he is slain, then will I slay myself. I swear it—on the cross!"

The men recoiled, and for a moment Harald himself was dumb. But he looked down at the Ax Thrower again, and again was stern.

"He merits death! A follower of Thor—"

"No, no!"

She stooped closer over him, as though to protect him from harm. Her face was against his. Her hands were at his throat, fondling it. And they touched something there.

Her father bent over to pull her away. But her sharp cry stopped him. He looked down at her, and the others also. She had tugged at the thing about his neck beneath the armor, and it was a metal chain. She pulled it forth—and on the end of it was a crucifix!

"See!" she cried. "He wears the cross!"

"The cross!" Harald cried. "Nephew of Svend the Bloody wear a cross? Then it is stolen, perhaps—he wears it as a mockery—"

Edvard Haakonsson moaned and opened his eyes. He struggled to sit up, and Thyra aided him. He looked around, and smiled.

"I fell," he said. "I slipped in blood, and crashed my head!"

"No, my Ax Thrower! I shot you with an arrow!" Thyra told him.

"Then am I content to die—"

But Harald stopped it. "On your feet, black jarl!" he cried. "Men, lift him!"

They jerked him to his feet, and he leaned weakly against the wall. The smile had fled from his face. Thyra pulled away from her father and, ran to his side, and clung to him.

"I love him!" she said. "Can you not understand?"

But Harald the Just was looking straight into Edvard's eyes and was deaf to her plea.

"What have you to say to me, black jarl?" he demanded. "Such black treachery—"

"I knew nothing of it, on my word!" the Ax Thrower said.

"And what is your word worth to me? You knew nothing of it—you, Svend's kinsman? How could he plan it, except with you?"

"Yet he did," Edvard Haakonsson replied. "I speak the truth! I knew nothing of it until Svend's men caught me in the woods and made me prisoner. I would have warned you, but escaped only just as the signal was given?"

"And by whom can you prove this?"

"By only one man, and there he lies—dead!" He pointed to the body of Eric.

"It is poor evidence. You, a man of Thor—"

"I am a Christian!" Edvard announced. "Always have I been a Christian. That was why my father did not return to the land of his birth to claim his jarldom. In the southland where he met my mother he turned Christian, and he was happier there."

"How do I know this is not a lie?" Harald demanded. "A pagan might lie to save his life's blood! The cross at your throat may have been stolen."

"Think so, if you will."

"Enough of this!" Harald cried. "One of you pull my daughter away, for she is bewitched. And hand me an ax. Mine own is missing. With my own hands will I slay the last of the brood of Svend, in the name of the cross!"

Edvard Haakonsson stood straight and tall and pale against the wall. His eyes narrowed as they pulled the weeping Thyra away, and he looked after her with love in his glance.

Harald the Just grasped the ax a man gave him and stood before the black jarl.

"It is but justice!" he said.

"Would you strike down an unarmed jarl?"

"This is an execution, jarl! You are not worthy to be met in honorable combat! Scum of the Svend blood! Do you even falter in the face of death?"

"Not I!" Edvard cried. "But I crave an instant before you strike!"

Harald held his hand a moment, then slowly raised the ax over his shoulder. But Edvard Haakonsson was not praying to Odin for aid. The smile touched his lips again, he raised his right hand, and swiftly he made the sign of the cross!

"Strike, Harald, surnamed the Just!" his voice rang out. "Strike through that sign—if you dare!"

The ax fell to the floor. Harald the Just stepped a pace backward.

"You—you—" he gasped. "You are—indeed—a Christian?"

"I have spoken truth. Blind man, can you see now?"

A sudden tumult in the great hall below! Men were cheering, and there came the tramping of many feet. Harald the just and his men whirled as though to face new foes, and Thyra crept forward again and into the shelter of Edvard's arms.

And in upon them walked—Olaf Trygvesson!

"Hail, Harald!" said the king. "I had some inkling of this, and hurried hence with warriors to give you aid. But you needed no aid, it seems! And what is this? My black jarl? You would have slain him?"

"Had I not found him a Christian!" Harald said.

"Give thanks that you did not. I am convinced that he knew nothing of this treachery. I do know that Svend even plotted against him to get his estates, and now he may have his own and Svend's also. The day you left the fair a ship out in from the south, and brought me news of this black jarl. A good Christian he is, and always has been! And he is our friend!"

"I am glad I stayed my hand," Harald said.

But Olaf Trygvesson had turned to the Ax Thrower.

"Claim your estates, weed out the unworthy, and build your house anew, Edvard, my friend," he said. "I'll lend you warriors. And when you have done those things, come to me at Trondhjem, like a good Christian, and help me build my church."

He paused a moment, and his eyes twinkled as he looked down at Thyra.

"And when you come to Trondhjem, black jarl, bring your bride with you," he added. "It is our royal command!"

THE END

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 Metasyntactic variable, which is released under the 
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