Rolf had declined to go hunting, on the plea of his horse's lameness.
Now, as he sat working and humming, he was presumably thinking up some
other diversion,--and the frequent glances he sent toward the thrall
seemed to indicate that the latter was to be concerned in it.

Finally Rolf called to Alwin: "Ho there, Englishman! Come hither and
tell me what you think of this for a weapon."

It needed no urging to make Alwin exchange a broom for a sword. He came
and lifted the great blade, and made passes in the air, and examined the
hilt of brass-studded wood.

"Saw I never a finer weapon," he admitted. "The hilt fits to one's hand
better than those gold things on Sigurd Haraldsson's sword. What is it
called?" For in those days a good blade bore a name as certainly as a
horse or a ship.

Rolf answered, in his soft voice: "It is called 'The Biter.' And it has
bitten not a few,--but it is fitting that others should speak of that.
Since the handle fits your grasp so well, will you not hold it a little
longer, while I borrow Long Lodin's weapon here, and we try each other's
skill?" He made a motion to rise, then checked himself and hesitated:
"Or it may be," he added gently, "that you do not care to strive against
one as strong as I?"

"Now, by St. Dunstan, you need not spare me thus!" Alwin cried hotly.
"Never have I turned my back on a challenge; and never will I, while the
red blood runs in my veins. Get your weapon quickly." He shook the big
blade in the air, and threw himself into a posture of defence.