For once Alwin was fairly dazed. "Either this fellow has gotten out of
his wits," he muttered, crossing himself, "or else he has mistaken me
for some--"

He had not time to finish his sentence. Young Olafsson's fingers had
closed upon the haft of his knife; he drew it with a fierce cry: "But I
will make the rest of it a lie!" Throwing himself upon Alwin, he bore
him over backwards across the threshold.

It is likely that that moment would have seen the end of Alwin, if it
had not happened that Valbrand the steersman was in the booth, arraying
himself for the feast. He was a gigantic warrior, with a face seamed
with scars and as hard as the battle-axe at his side. He caught Egil's
uplifted arm and wrested the blade from his grasp.

"It is not likely that I will allow Leif's property to be damaged, Egil
the Black. Would you choke him? Loose him, or I will send you to the
Troll, body and bones!"

Egil rose reluctantly. Alwin leaped up like a spring released from a
weight.

"What has he done," demanded Valbrand, "that you should so far forget
the law as to attack another man's thrall?"

Instead of bursting into the tirade Alwin expected, Egil flushed and
looked away. "It is enough that I am not pleased with his looks," he
said sullenly.