The Long Ships

CHAPTER EIGHT

HOW ORM MET AN OLD FRIEND

ORM took Faste’s scribe with him and went to search among the fallen Patzinaks. They found one who was wounded but not dead, a young man, who had received an arrow in the side and another in the knee. He appeared to be in good heart, for he was sitting up and gnawing a piece of dried meat, with a long wooden flask in his other hand, while his horse grazed beside him.

This man was able to understand something of what the scribe said, and was pleased when he learned that they had not come to take his head. Orm bade the scribe say that they wished to help him on to his horse and accompany him back to his village. After the scribe had repeated this message several times, the Patzinak nodded and pointed at his knee. The arrow had gone right through it, just behind the kneecap, so that the head was sticking out from the inner side of his leg. He had tried to pull it out, he explained by gestures, but had not been able to do so. Orm cut the leg of his skin breeches and worked the arrow a little, pushing it farther into the knee until the whole of the metal head appeared, so that it might be cut off and the shaft drawn out from the other side. The Patzinak snapped his fingers as Orm did this, and whistled slowly; then, when the operation was completed, he set his flask to his mouth and drained it. The other arrow he had succeeded in extracting himself.

Orm took from his belt a fistful of silver and gave it to the man. His face lit up at the sight of it, and he seized it eagerly.

Near them there stood other horses, waiting patiently by the bodies of their fallen masters. They moved away as Orm and the scribe approached them; but when the Patzinak called them with a special whistle, they came willingly to him and allowed halters to be put round their necks.

They helped the wounded man on to his horse. He crooked his wounded leg up on the saddle and appeared not to be troubled by it. The scribe was unwilling to go with them, but Orm told him curtly to do as he was told.

“If you protest, I shall wring your neck,” he said. “It is I, not you, who am to become their prisoner.”

The scribe mumbled that this sort of thing was no fit occupation for a state officer whose concern was collecting taxes; he obeyed, however, and no more was said about this.

They rode away into the grassland, which was the Patzinaks’ domain. Orm said afterwards that a man might search long for a worse land and not succeed; for there were no trees or water, beasts or men to be seen there, but only grass and the empty air above it, and, occasionally, a kind of large rat that slunk away among the tussocks. Twice the Patzinak reined in his horse, pointed to the ground, and said something to the scribe, who then dismounted from his horse and pulled up the plants that the Patzinak had indicated. These, which were broad-bladed, the Patzinak then wrapped round his wounded knee, and bound them fast with a bowstring. This seemed to soothe the pain of his wound, so that he was able to ride on without becoming exhausted.

When the sun had climbed to half of its midday height, they reached the Patzinak camp. It lay in a hollow on either side of a stream, along the banks of which their tents stood in their hundreds. As they approached, hounds began to bay and children to yell, and the camp suddenly became full of horses and men. The Patzinak rode proudly in with his prisoners; then, when they had helped him from his horse, he showed the silver he had received and pointed at Orm.

Orm told the scribe to say that he wished to speak to their chieftain. At first nobody appeared to understand what he said, but at length a little bandy-legged man appeared who understood him and was able to reply in the scribe’s own tongue.

“Tell him this,” said Orm to the scribe. “Both my sons, who are very young, were captured by you during the battle at the weirs last night. I am a chieftain and have come to buy them free. I have come unarmed, as a proof of my peaceful intentions and good faith.”

The bandy-legged man pulled thoughtfully at his long cheek-beard and exchanged a word or two with the wounded man who had brought them. Their talk sounded to Orm’s ears more like the clucking of owls than the speech of men, but they seemed to be able to understand each other without difficulty. Many of those who stood watching grinned broadly at Orm and took out their knives and drew them across their throats. This, said Orm afterwards, was the worst moment of his life, for he took it to mean that they had already cut the throats of their prisoners, though he hoped that it might merely signify that they intended to perform the operation on him. This seemed to him by far the lesser evil, if, by allowing this to happen, he could enable Blackhair to go free.

He said to the scribe: “Ask him whether his two captives are still alive.”

The bandy-legged man nodded, and shouted to three men, who stepped forward. These were the men who owned the prisoners.

Orm said: “Tell them that I wish to buy their prisoners for much silver. They are my sons.”

The three men began to jabber, but the bandy-legged man said that it would be best that Orm and the scribe should go with him to the chieftains. They came to three tents that were larger than the rest, and followed the little man into the center one.

Three old men, wearing furs and with shaven heads, were seated on a sheepskin on the ground, their legs crossed beneath them, eating a mess from a large clay bowl. When they had entered, the bandy-legged man halted and signed to Orm and the scribe to remain silent. The three old men ate greedily, blowing on their spoons and smacking their lips with relish. When the bowl was empty, they licked their spoons and stuffed them into holes in their furs. Then, at last, they condescended to notice that somebody had come in.

One of them nodded at the bandy-legged man. He bowed to the ground and began to speak, while the chieftains sat listening with dull expressions, giving vent to an occasional belch.

The one who sat in the middle was smaller than the other two and had very large ears. Tilting his head to one side, he stared piercingly at Orm. At length the bandy-legged man stopped talking, and there was a silence. Then the little chieftain croaked a few words, and the bandy-legged man bowed reverently and went out, taking the scribe with him.

When they had gone, the little chieftain said slowly: “You are welcome here, Orm Tostesson, though it is better that we should conceal the fact that we know each other. It is a long time since we last met. Is Ylva, King Harald’s daughter, who played as a child upon my knees, still alive?”

Orm drew a deep breath. He had recognized the little man as soon as he had begun to speak. It was Felimid, King Harald’s Irish jester.

“She is alive,” replied Orm, “and remembers you well. It is her son who is one of your prisoners here. This is certainly a strange meeting, and one that may prove lucky for us both. Are you a chieftain among these Patzinaks?”

Felimid nodded. “When one is old, one must take the best that comes,” he said. “But I cannot really complain.”

He spoke to his two fellow chieftains, turned round, and shouted toward the back of the tent. A woman entered with a great drinking-cup, which they passed around and which soon became empty. The woman filled it again; then, when it had again been emptied, the other two chieftains rose with difficulty to their feet and tottered out.

“They will sleep now,” said Felimid to Orm when they were alone. “It is so with these people that they easily become drunk, and then they at once fall asleep and remain thus for half the day. They are simple souls. Now you and I can sit and talk here undisturbed. You have had a long ride and are, perhaps, hungry?”

“You have guessed rightly,” said Orm. “Since I recognized you my anxiety has been lightened, and the three things that I long for most are to see my son again and to eat and drink.”

“You shall see him as soon as we have decided the question of his ransom,” said Felimid. “This will, I fear, cost you silver; for if I commanded otherwise, the whole tribe would become enraged with me. But first you shall be my guest.”

He shouted orders, and six women entered and began to set out food on a mat that they spread on the floor of the tent.

“These are my wives,” explained Felimid. “They may seem a lot for an old man, but such is the custom here. And I must have something to keep me amused, now that Ferdiad is dead and I can no longer practice my art.”

“This is sad news about your brother,” said Orm. “How did he die? And how did you come here?”

“Eat, and I will tell you; I have already eaten enough. We have no ale, alas, but here is a drink that we make from mare’s milk. Taste it; you have drunk worse.”

It was a clear drink, with a sweet-sour taste, and Orm thought it would be difficult to find kind words to say of it; however, he soon noticed that there was good strength in it.

Felimid made Orm eat all the food that had been brought, and shouted to the women to bring more. Meanwhile he told what had happened to him and his brother since they had trudged away from Gröning.

“We roamed widely,” he said, “as we told you we would when last we parted; and finally we came to the great Prince in Kiev. We remained in his palace for two years, delighting all men with our arts and earning great honor; but then we began to notice that we were putting on flesh. At this we were greatly afraid, and determined to leave, though everybody begged us to remain, because we wished, while our skill yet remained to us, to perform before the great Emperor at Miklagard, as had been our intention from the beginning. But we never reached him, for at the weirs we were taken by the Patzinaks. They found us too old to be of any use and wanted to kill us, so as to be able to set up our heads on poles, as is their custom. But we displayed our arts before them, the simplest that we know, until they prostrated themselves on their bellies in a circle around us and worshipped us as gods. Nevertheless, they would not let us go; and as soon as we had learned something of their language, they made us chieftains, because of our wisdom and knowledge of witchcraft. We soon grew accustomed to our new life, for it is easier to be a chieftain than a jester; besides, we had realized for some time that old age was, at last, beginning to stiffen our limbs. The great Archbishop Cormac Mac-Cullenan spoke truly when he said, long ago: ‘A wise man, once he is past fifty, does not befuddle his senses with strong drink, nor make violent love in the cool spring night, nor dance on his hands.”’

Felimid took a draught from his cup and nodded sadly.

“He spoke too truly,” he said, “and my brother Ferdiad forgot this warning when one of his women produced male twins. Then he drank deeply of this yeasty mare’s-milk and danced on his hands before all the people, like the King of the Jews before God; and in the midst of his dance he fell and remained lying, and when we lifted him up he was dead. I mourned him deeply, and mourn him still, though nobody can deny that it was a worthy death for a master jester to die. Ever since then I have remained here with these Patzinaks, in peace and contentment. They are like children, and venerate me deeply, and seldom oppose my will except when they go head-hunting, which is an ancient custom with them which they will not abandon. But now tell me how it has been with you and yours.”

Orm told him all that he wished to know. When, however, he came to speak of the treasure at the weirs, he thought it best to mention only the three sacks of silver; for he did not wish to pay more than need be when it came to fixing the ransom for Black-hair and Ulf. Lastly he described the battle with the Patzinaks. When he had concluded, Felimid said: “It is lucky that your son and foster son were taken alive. This was because of their youth; the men who captured them hoped to make a good profit by selling them to the Arabs or the Byzantines. You must therefore be prepared to pay a large price for them. It is lucky that you have the treasure within easy reach.”

“I shall pay whatever price you name,” said Orm. “It is no more than right that a large sum should be demanded for King Harald’s grandson.”

“I have not myself seen the boy,” said Felimid, “for I do not bother myself with the thefts and rapes of my subjects, except where absolutely necessary. They are always capturing men and treasure at these weirs. But it is time for us to settle this matter without delay.”

They went out of the tent, and Felimid shouted orders to this man and that. The two other chieftains were awakened, and emerged sleepy-eyed; then, when they and Felimid had seated themselves on a grass slope, all the people in the camp came running to the place and grouped themselves around them in a tight circle. Then the two prisoners were led forth by their captors. They were both pale, and Blackhair had blood in his hair; but their faces lit up as they saw Orm, and the first thing that Black-hair said was: “Where is your sword?”

“I came here unarmed, to obtain your release,” said Orm. “Because it was my fault that you were captured.”

“They came on us from behind among the rocks,” said Black-hair sadly, “and we could offer no resistance.”

“They clubbed us,” said Glad Ulf, “after which we knew nothing until we awoke to find ourselves bound upon horses.”

Felimid now spoke to the other chieftains and to the boys’ captors, and a long argument followed as to the amount of the ransom Orm should pay.

“It is our custom,” explained Felimid to Orm, “that all those who have taken part in the fighting shall have their share of the ransom, while those who have actually captured the prisoners shall have a double share. I have told them that Blackhair is your son, and that you are a chieftain among your people; but I have not told them that he is a great King’s grandson, for if they knew this there would be no end to their demands.”

At length it was agreed that they should ride to the ship the next day, and that Glad Ulf should be ransomed with as much silver as could be contained in four of the Patzinaks’ tall hats. For Blackhair, though, they demanded his weight in silver.

Orm thought this an exorbitant sum to demand, even for so important a person as his son. But when he remembered his feelings of the morning, after he had learned that Blackhair had been captured, he reflected that, on the whole, things had turned out better than he could have expected.

“He is sparely built,” said Felimid consolingly. “You would have to dive deeper into those sacks of yours if you yourself had to be weighed. And a son is worth more than any amount of silver. I can see from his looks that he is Ylva’s child. It is a great grief to me that I have no son. I had one, but he died young, and now I have only daughters. Ferdiad’s sons will have to succeed me as chieftains.”

Later that day the Patzinaks went to the camp which the Northmen had pitched by the weirs, to fetch their wounded. Their dead they left lying where they had fallen, for it was not their custom to bury them, save when a great chieftain had died. But they were vexed that the Northmen had taken away their dead, thus depriving the men who had killed them of their heads, and declared that it was only right that Orm should pay them for robbing them of their lawful trophies.

Felimid upbraided them for making this demand, which he found unreasonable. When, however, they persisted, he said to Orm that it would be unwise to press the point too strongly, for their greed for heads was a kind of madness with them, against which no amount of reason would prevail.

Orm disliked acceding to this request, and thought that these Patzinaks looked likely to skin him to the bone; but since he was in their hands, he thought it would be unwise of him to refuse. He reflected miserably that his silver-sacks would become much lightened by the time he had paid the large sum demanded for the boys’ ransom and had given each of his men their share. After he had pondered the matter for a while, however, he hit upon a solution of the problem.

“I shall pay them for my men’s heads, since you so counsel me,” he said, “and will give them a sum the size of which will surprise them. When we were taking the sacks out of the river, we were in a great hurry, for we feared we might be attacked and outnumbered. In our haste we burst one of the sacks, so that most of its contents ran out into the water; and it contained nothing but fair silver coins. We had no time to gather up this money, so that at least a third of it is still lying there on the riverbed; and if your men are not afraid of water, they will be able to fish themselves great wealth there.”

He described the place, and how they would easily find it by the stones lying on the rock-flats, where they had put them after dragging them out of the water. Felimid translated his words to the gathering, and before he had finished, all the young men of the tribe were rushing to their horses so as to be the first to arrive at the place and dive for these unusual fish.

When these questions had been decided, Felimid suggested that they should dine and make merry together, for old times’ sake. He spoke much of King Harald and of his brother Ferdiad, and recalled the time he had visited Orm at Gröning and helped Father Willibald to convert the heathens after dinner in the church.

“But now that the Erin Masters have ceased to jest,” he said, “there are no good jesters left in the world. For we had no brothers, but were the last of the line of O’Flann, who had jested before kings ever since the days of King Conchobar MacNessa. In my loneliness here I have tried to teach some of the young Patzinaks something of my art, but have failed. The boys can do nothing at all, and when I turned in despair to the girls and tried to teach them to dance like a master jester, I found them too stupid to be able to follow my instructions, though I took pains with them and showed them how everything should be done. They were not quite so hopeless as the boys of this tribe, however, and one of them got as far as being able to dance reasonably well on her hands, and pipe the while. But that was the most she could attain to; and neither her piping nor the movements of her legs were all that could be desired.”

He spat meditatively and shook his head.

“Although she was but a novice in the art, and will never be more,” he said, “she became so vain of her supposed skill that she performed incessantly, until at last I grew tired of her and packed her off as a gift to Gzak. This Gzak you have doubtless heard of, for he is one of the three mightiest men in the whole world. He is the overlord of all the Patzinaks, and mostly grazes his flocks around Krim. Being a simple soul, who knows little about the arts, he was delighted with the girl. Then he sent her to the Emperor at Miklagard, as a thanks-gift for all the friendship-money that the Emperor had sent him. In Miklagard there must indeed be a dearth of dancers and jesters, for she danced before the Emperor himself and his court and won great praise and fame until, after a year, her vanity became such that she died for it. But my troubles are not at an end, for last winter Gzak sent messengers to me bidding me send him two new dancers of equal skill, to replace her at Miklagard; and my whole time is spent in training them. Their stupidity and clumsiness nauseate me, though I chose them carefully, and they are nothing for you to see, who have watched me and my brother display our art. If you would care to look at them, though, I have no objection to their appearing; they may amuse your sons.”

Orm said that he would like to see them, and Felimid shouted orders. When the members of the tribe heard what he said, they began to clap and cheer.

“The whole tribe is proud of them,” said Felimid dolefully, “and their mothers wash them in sweet milk every morning, to make their skins clear. But they will never learn to dance properly, whatever pains I may expend upon them.”

Mats were spread out on the ground in front of the chieftains, and men brought flaming torches. Then the dancers appeared and were greeted with a great sigh of anticipation from all the tribesmen. They were well-shaped and appeared to be about thirteen or fourteen years old. They wore red hats over their dark hair, and strings of green glass beads round their breasts, and were dressed in broad breeches of yellow silk from the land of the Seres, tied at the ankles.

“It is a long time since I last saw dancing-girls,” said Orm. “Not since I served my lord Almansur. But I do not think I ever saw any of a more engaging appearance than these.”

“It is not by their appearance, but by their dancing, that they are to be judged,” said Felimid. “But I designed their costumes myself and think them not displeasing.”

The dancers had with them two boys of the same age as themselves, who squatted on their haunches and began to blow on pipes. As the music started, the girls began to hop around in the torchlight to the time of the pipes, strutting and giving sudden leaps and bouncing backwards and twirling round on one leg, so that everybody except Felimid sat entranced. When the girls stopped, great applause broke out, and they looked gratified when they observed that the strangers, too, appeared pleased with their performance. Then they glanced timidly at Felimid. He nodded toward them, as though satisfied, and turned to Orm.

“I cannot tell them what I really feel,” he explained, “for it would make them miserable, and the whole tribe with them. And they are doing their best this evening, with strangers present. But the pipers pain me more than the girls, although they are Khazar slaves who have been given much leisure for practice, and the Khazars are said to be skillful pipers. But that is evidently a false reputation.”

The girls began to dance anew, but after a while Felimid shouted angrily at them, so that they ceased.

“I am glad my brother Ferdiad was spared this,” he said to Orm. “He had a more tender ear than I.”

He said something to the pipers, and one of them came over and handed him his pipe.

As Felimid set his lips to it, it seemed as though witchcraft entered into its reeds. It was as though he piped of joy and luck, jests and laughter, the beauty of women and the gleam of swords, the shimmer of morning upon a lake, and the wind blowing over spring grasses. Blackhair and Ulf sat rocking backwards and forwards, as though they had difficulty in remaining seated; the two chieftains sitting on either side of Felimid nodded piously and fell asleep; the Patzinaks stamped their feet and clapped their hands rhythmically, some laughing, others crying; and the dancing-girls spun and hovered as though they had been translated into thistledown by the notes of Felimid’s pipe.

At last he took the pipe from his lips and twitched his huge ears contentedly.

“I have played worse,” he said.

“It is my belief,” said Orm, “that there is still no master in the world who can compare with you, and it is not surprising that these men worshipped you from the moment you came among them. But it is beyond any man’s power to understand how you can conjure such music as that from this simple pipe.”

“It comes from the goodness that is in the wood of the pipe, when the pipe is truly made,” said Felimid, “and that goodness is revealed when the pipe is blown by someone who has a similar goodness in his soul, as well as patience to seek out the secrets that lie hidden within the pipe. But there must be no wood in his soul.”

Faste’s scribe ran forward and, falling on his knees before Felimid, besought him to lend him the pipe. There were tears running down his cheeks.

“What do you want it for?” asked Felimid. “Can you play a pipe?”

“No,” said the scribe. “I am a state official, employed in the department of taxes. But I shall learn. I wish to remain with you and play a pipe.”

Felimid handed him the pipe. He set it to his mouth and began to blow. He managed to produce a tiny squeak, but no more, and the Patzinaks contorted their bodies with laughter at his futile endeavors. But he continued to blow, his face pale and his eyes staring, while Felimid gazed earnestly at him.

“Do you see anything?” asked Felimid.

The scribe handed him back the pipe. Shaking with sobs, he replied: “I see only that which you lately blew upon.”

Felimid nodded. “You may stay,” he said. “I will teach you. When I have finished training these girls, I shall make you good enough to play before the Emperor himself. You may keep the pipe.”

So the evening ended; and next morning Felimid rode with his guests to the ship, with a great host of Patzinaks accompanying them. But before they took their leave of him, Felimid gave them all parting gifts. To Orm, Blackhair, and Ulf he gave each a knife, with gold engraving on the hilts and cunningly worked silver sheaths; and for Ylva he gave them a bale of Serean silk. They thanked him for his gifts, and thought it a bad thing that they had no fine present to give him in return as a token of friendship.

“I take pleasure in few things,” said Felimid, “and gold and silver are not among them. So it matters little that you have nothing to give me, for I do not need gifts to be sure of your friendship. There is, though, now that I think of it, one thing that I should like to have, if you should ever find an opportunity to send it to me. Are your great hounds still alive?”

Orm said that they were, and in good health, and that there had been fourteen of them when he had left home. Then Felimid said: “Soon, Blackhair, you will be a full-fledged warrior, and it cannot be long before you will set forth on a long voyage of your own, now that you have started so young. It may be that you will journey to Kiev, or perhaps to Miklagard. If this should happen, bring two or three of the great hounds with you, as a present for me. That would be a friendship-gift that I would cherish indeed, and I cannot think of one that would give me greater pleasure; for they come from Erin, which is my home also.”

Blackhair promised that he would do this if he came again to the Eastland; then they broke camp and turned their faces once again to the north. Faste’s scribe nodded abstractedly at them as they rode away, his mind being otherwise occupied; for he was sitting with the Khazar slaves, practicing busily on his pipe. Both Blackhair and Ulf would have liked to stay longer with the Patzinaks, to watch the dancers and partake in other pleasures with them; but Orm was impatient to get back to his ship and his men, for he felt half naked, he said, and a mean man, without Blue-Tongue at his waist.

When they reached the river, the Patzinaks halted a short way from the bank, so that there should be no trouble between them and Orm’s men; but neither the men who had captured Blackhair and Ulf nor the rest of the band would release their prisoners before the ransom had been paid in full. Orm went alone toward the ship, and when the men aboard saw him they raised joyous cries and put out a boat. Toke handed him his sword and asked eagerly how he had fared. Orm told him how he had met Felimid and how they had settled the whole matter between them, including the amount of the ransom they were to pay for Blackhair and Ulf.

Toke laughed with joy.

“Our luck, too, has been nothing to complain of,” he said, “and you need waste no silver to free the boys. We have nine Patzinaks aboard, bound hand and foot, and they will be more than sufficient ransom for our two.”

He added that Spof and Long Staff and many of the others had been unable to rest for thinking of all the silver that had been spilled into the water.

“They begged and badgered me,” he said, “until at last I yielded. Spof went with twenty men along the right bank, where there was no danger of their being attacked. Midway between the two weirs they crossed the river, at a place where the water was so shallow that they scarcely needed to swim, and crept stealthily through the dusk to the place where the treasure lay. Then they heard merry shouts and saw horses grazing, and came upon these Patzinaks as they were fishing up the silver. We captured the lot of them without difficulty, for they were unarmed and we seized them before they could climb out of the water. With them we captured all the silver that they had fished out. We were just debating whether to free one of them and send him back to his people to obtain the release of you and the boys.”

Orm said that this was, indeed, good news, though he doubted whether the Patzinaks would think so. He stood for a while pondering.

“I shall not demand ransom for these prisoners,” he said, “and no man in the ship shall lose by this, but only I myself. But they shall not be released until the boys are freed.”

“You are a great chieftain,” said Toke, “and must act like one. But in this you are being generous to men who do not deserve such treatment. For it was they who attacked us in the first place, and not we them.”

“You do not know Felimid,” said Orm. “He is worth much generosity. This matter shall be settled the way I wish it.”

So he and Toke fetched a sack of silver and carried it between them to the waiting Patzinaks. When they saw what the sack contained, the Patzinaks ran around measuring each other’s hats, to find the biggest, but Felimid grew vexed at this and took off his own hat and ordered that the silver should be measured out in that; nor did they dare to say that it should be otherwise.

Then men were sent to search among the pieces of timber that lay on the ground at the beginning of the dragging-tracks, and returned shortly with a plank. This was placed across a stone and axed so that it weighed evenly on either side. Then Blackhair sat on one end of it. The Patzinaks lay saddlebags across the other end, and into these Toke poured silver from the sack until Black-hair’s end was lifted from the ground. All the Patzinaks, said Felimid, agreed that this business of the weighing had been carried out in a chieftainlike manner, for they realized that if Blackhair had taken his clothes off before sitting on the plank, Orm would thereby have saved silver, and nobody could have complained that he was acting dishonorably.

When the weighing was completed, Toke went back to the ship with the silver that remained, and Orm said to Felimid: “I have enjoyed a deal of luck since I started on this voyage, and not the least of it was that I met you. When we rode from your camp, you gave us friendship-gifts, and now I have one to offer you in return. You see these men?”

Toke had freed his prisoners, and Felimid and his men stared at them in amazement.

“They are the men who rode out to fish for silver,” said Orm. “My men went on a similar errand, and captured them at the fishing-place. But I give them back to you free of ransom, though I doubt not that many men would think me foolish to do so. But I have no wish to haggle with you, Felimid.”

“You are worth all your luck,” said Felimid, “and that is a great deal.”

“I shall bring the great hounds with me, none the less,” said Blackhair, “the next time I pass this way. And that may not be long hence, for now that I have been weighed in silver I consider myself a full man.”

“Be sure you have dancing-girls washed in milk ready to greet us,” said Glad Ulf, “at least as pretty as the ones we saw today.”

Felimid scratched behind his ear. “That is all you think me capable of,” he said, “to provide dancing-girls for you on your return. I shall choose the ugliest I can find, and have them steeped in horse-droppings, lest you foolish children should take it into your heads to steal them from old Felimid, after all the pains he has taken to train them.”

They said farewell to the master jester and his Patzinaks and returned to the ship. Then they weighed anchor and started on their homeward voyage. The wounded among them seemed to be on the way to recovery, and even Olof Summerbird, who was the worst hurt, was in good heart. The men pulled at their oars with a will, though they knew they had a long row ahead of them against the current. Sone’s seven sons were the merriest of all, though they had the bodies of their two dead brothers aboard, intending to bury them at their first camp, with the men who had been killed by the bees. Toke thought that this had, indeed, been a strange voyage, for they had come a long way and won a great treasure, and yet Red-Jowl had not left her sheath. He thought, though, they might find themselves somewhat busier on the way home, with so much gold aboard. Ulf and Blackhair sat happily on the deck, telling the other men of all that had happened to them while they had been prisoners of the Patzinaks. Orm alone wore a thoughtful face.

“Do you regret having let those prisoners go without ransom?” asked Toke.

“No,” replied Orm. “What troubles me is that my luck has been too good, so that I begin to fear that all may not be as it should be at home. It would be good to know how things are there.”