The feast waxed merrier and noisier. One of the fiddlers began to shout
a ballad, to the accompaniment of the harp. It happened to be the "Song
of the Dwarf-Cursed Sword." Sigurd swallowed a curd the wrong way when
the words struck his ear; even Valbrand looked sideways at his chief.
But Leif's face was immovable; and only his followers noticed that he
did not join in the applause that followed the song. Some of the crew
let out sighs of impatience. They could fight,--it was their pleasure
next after drinking,--but these waits of diplomacy were almost too much
for them. It was fortunate that some trick-dogs were brought in at this
point. Watching their antics, the spectators forgot impatience in
boisterous delight.

While they were cheering the dog that had jumped highest over his pole,
and pounding on the table to express their approval, through chinks in
the uproar there came from outside a sound of voices, and horses
neighing.

"It is Thorwald, home from hunting!" Sigurd said eagerly, looking toward
the door. In a moment he was proved correct, for the door had opened and
admitted the sportsman and his companion.

Thorwald Ericsson was as unlike his brother Leif as the guardsman was
different from some of the plain farmers around him. He was long and
lean and wiry, and his thin lips were set in cruel lines. His dress was
shabby, and out of all decent order. Patches of fur had been torn out of
his cloak; he was muddy up to his knees, and there was blood on his
tunic and on his hands. He stood staring at the gay company in surprise,
blinking in the sudden light, until his gaze en-countered Leif, when he
cried out joyously and hastened forward to seize his hand.