"So you are the son of the chief here," he said quietly. "What is
your name and rank? Will anyone ransom you?"

"I am the youngest son--I am worth nothing to any man," I said.

"He is Malcolm, the jarl's best-loved son," said that man of ours
who had asked my pardon. "Maybe his mother's folk will ransom him.
His grandfather is Melbrigda, the Scots jarl over yonder."

He pointed across the hills where the smoke hung among the heather,
and at that old Heidrek laughed, while the men at his heels
chuckled evilly. For some reason of their own, which, maybe, was
not far to seek, they were certain that Melbrigda could find ransom
for no one at this time, if he would. Asbiorn turned to our guest,
seeing, no doubt, that he was not of the house carles. The great
gold torque on his neck seemed to shine all the more brightly by
reason of the blackened mail and cloak that half hid it.

"My name?" said Dalfin, with a flash of pride in his gray eyes. "It
is Dalfin, prince of Maghera, in Ireland, of the line of the Ulster
kings. Kill me, and boast that once you slew a prince. No need to
say that I was bound when you did it."

He spoke the Danish of Waterford and Dublin well enough.

Asbiorn flushed, with some sort of manly shame, as I believe, and
even old Heidrek frowned uneasily. To have the deed they threatened
set in all its shame before them was a new thing to them.