alder, a broad lane ran east over green hill and dale. Amid a babel of
talk and laughter, they passed along the lane, the rank and file
performing many jovial capers, slipping bold arms around trim waists and
scuffling over bundles of treasure. Over hill and dale they went for
nearly two miles; then, some four hundred feet from the rocky banks of
Einar's Fiord, the lane ended before the wide-thrown gates of a high
fence.

If the gates had been closed, one might have guessed what was inside; so
unvarying was the plan of Norse manors. A huge quadrangular courtyard
was surrounded by substantial buildings. To the right was the great
hall, with the kitchens and storehouses. Across the inner side stood the
women's house, with the herb-garden on one hand, and the guest-chambers
on the other. To the left were the stables, the piggery, the
sheep-houses, the cow-sheds, and the smithies.

No sooner had they passed the gates than a second avalanche of greetings
fell upon them. Gathered together in the grassy space were more armed
retainers, more white-clad thralls, more barking dogs, more house
servants in holiday attire, and, at the head of them, the far-famed Eric
the Red and his strong-minded Thorhild.

One glance at the Red One convinced Alwin that his reputation did not
belie him. It was not alone his floating hair and his long beard that
were fiery; his whole person looked capable of instantaneous combustion.
His choleric blue eyes, now twinkling with good humor, a spark could
kindle into a blaze. A breath could fan the ruddy spots on his cheeks
into flames.

As Alwin watched him, he said to himself, "It is not that he was three