"He is angry because Eric keeps up the heathen sacrifice," the women
whispered in each other's ears. "He has all of Eric's temper when he is
angered. It would be as much as one's life were worth to go near him
now." Shivering with nervousness, they crouched on the bench beside
their mistress's seat.

Thorhild leaned on the arm of her chair, shading her brow with her hand
that she might gaze at Leif unseen. Sometimes her eyes dwelt on his
face, and sometimes they rested on the silver crucifix that shone on his
breast; and so great was her tenderness for the one, that she embraced
the other also in a look of yearning love.

When the house-thralls had cleared away the tables, they crept into a
corner and stayed there, fearing even to go forward and replenish the
sinking fire, though gusts of bitter cold came through the broken window
behind them.

Little as they guessed it, something besides cold was coming through the
hole in the window. Even while they shivered and nodded beneath it, a
pair of gray Saxon eyes were sending keen glances through it, searching
every corner.

As the eyes turned back to the outer darkness, Alwin's voice whispered
with a long breath of relief: "I am certain they have not noticed that
we have gone out."

From the darkness, Sigurd's voice interrupted softly: "Is Kark there?"

"I think he is still in his comer. The light is bad, and the flames are
leaping between, but it seems to me that I can make him out."