In the forecastle, old Ulf still held his own, backed by some
half-dozen stout survivors out of all those who had gone into
battle with him in the morning.

"My hour is come at last, Thorolf," he said to the upland giant,
who seemed to be disengaging something from his coat of ring-mail.
"I shall have tales of a merry fight to tell to Odin tonight. But
before I fall I shall slay me one of those two Vikings. Wilt thou
follow me, Thorolf, to the gangways, and then to Valhalla?"

With a violent wrench the giant drew a spearhead from his side,
and his blood spurted over Ulf, as he swayed on his feet.

"I go before," he said, and fell on the deck with a clatter of
steel.

"There died a brave man! Now, comrades, after him to Odin!"

And with that the forecastle captain sprang down on the gangway,
and knocking men off into the waist in his impetuous rush, swung
his battle-axe round his head and aimed a terrific blow at Osmund
Hooknose. Quick as lightning Osmund raised his shield and thrust
at his foe with his sword. The point of the blade passed in at his
breast and out between his shoulders, and at the same instant the
battle-axe fell. The edge of the shield was cut through like
paper, and the blade coming fair on the nape of the Hooknose's
neck, the bodies of the two champions rolled together off the
gangway.

Round the poop the last struggle raged. Spent and wounded as they