"Lady," he says, doffing his gold-circled cap, "have no fear. All
is well, and you are safe. Whence come you?"

But he has no answer, for the maiden sinks back into the boat
swooning. Then in all haste the king sends his thane for help to
the party they have left; and so he sits on the boat's gunwale and
watches the worn face pityingly.

Now come his men, and at his word they tend the maiden with all
care, so that very soon she revives again, and can tell her tale.
Beyond the hunger and thirst there has indeed been little hardship
to a daughter of the sea in the summer weather, for the breeze has
been kindly and steady, and the boat stanch and swift. There has
been rain too, gentle, and enough to stave off the utmost thirst.

All this she tells the king truly; and then he must know how she
came to lose her own shore. And at that she weeps, but is ready. In
the long hours she has conned every tale that may be made, and it
is on her lips.

She is the orphan daughter of a Danish jarl, she says, and her
father has been slain. She has been set adrift by the chief who has
taken her lands, for her folk had but power to ask that grace for
her. He would have slain her, but that they watched him. Doubtless
he had poisoned their minds against her, or they would not have
suffered thus far of ill to her even. Otherwise she cannot believe
so ill of them. It is all terrible to her.

And so, with many tears, she accounts for her want of oars, and
provides against the day when some chapman from beyond seas shall