Valbrand tossed him his knife with a scornful grunt. "Go and get sense!
Is he yours, that you may slay him because you dislike the tilt of his
nose? Go dress yourself. And you," he added, with a nod over his
shoulder at Alwin, "do you take yourself out of his sight somewhere. It
is unwisdom to tempt a hungry dog with meat that one would keep."

"If I had so much as a hunting-knife," Alwin cried furiously, "I swear
by all the saints of England, I would not stir--"

Valbrand wasted no time in argument. He seized Alwin and threw him out
of the door, with energy enough to roll him far down the slope.

The force with which he struck inclined Alwin to stay where he was for a
while; and gradually the coolness and the quietness about him soothed
him into a more reasonable temper. Egil Olafsson was mad; there could be
no question of that. Undoubtedly it was best to follow Valbrand's advice
and keep out of his way,--at least until he could secure a weapon with
which to defend himself. He stretched himself comfortably in the soft,
dewy grass and waited until the revellers, splendid in shining mail and
gay-hued mantles, clanked out to their horses and rode away. When the
last of them shouted his farewell to Sigurd and disappeared amid the
shadows of the wood-path, Alwin arose and walked slowly back to the
deserted camp.

Even the sunset light had left it now; a soft grayness shut it in, away
from the world. The air was full of night-noises; and high in the pines
a breeze was whispering softly. Very softly and sweetly, from somewhere
among the booths, the voice of the bond-girl arose in a plaintive
English ballad.