Go!"

They were fast runners in those days, by all accounts. It is said that
there were men in Ireland and the North so swift-footed that no horse
could overtake them. In ten minutes Alwin stood at the horseman's side,
red, dripping, and furious.

The stranger was a gallant young cavalier, with floating yellow locks
and a fine high-bred face. His velvet cloak was lined with ermine, his
silk tunic seamed with gold; he had gold embroidery on his gloves,
silver spurs to his heels, and a golden chain around his neck. Alwin
glared up at him, and hated him for his splendor, and hated him for his
long silken hair.

The rider looked down in surprise at the panting thrall with the shaven
head.

"What is your errand with me?" he asked.

It was not easy to explain, but Alwin framed it curtly: "If you are
Sigurd Haraldsson, a maiden named Helga is desirous that you should turn
back."

"I am Sigurd Haraldsson," the youth assented, "but I know no maiden in
Norway named Helga."

It occurred to Alwin that this Helga might belong to "the pack from
Greenland," but he kept a surly silence.

"What is the rest of her name?"