tented booths were clustered. "These are Thorgrim Svensson's tents," he
explained, following as coolly as though that were the accepted mode of
entrance. "Yonder he is,--that lean little man with the freckled face.
He is a great seafaring man. I promise you that you will see many
precious things from all over the world."

Approaching the booths, Alwin had immediate proof of this statement, for
bench and bush and ground were littered with garments and furs and
weapons, and odds-and-ends of spoil, as if a ship had been overturned on
the spot. The lean little man whom Rolf had pointed out stood in the
midst of it all, examining and directing. He was dressed in coarse
homespun of the dingy colors of trading vessels, gray and brown and
rusty black, which contrasted oddly with the mantle of gorgeous purple
velvet he was at that moment trying on. His little freckled face was
wrinkled into a hundred shrewd puckers, and his eyes were two twinkling
pin-points of sharpness. He seemed to thrust their glance into Alwin, as
he advanced to meet his visitors; and the men who were helping him
paused and looked at the thrall with expectant grins.

Rolf said blandly, "Greeting, Thorgrim Svensson! We have come to see
your horse-fight. This is Alwin, Edmund Jarl's son, of England. Bad luck
has made him Leif's thrall, but his accomplishments have made me his
friend."

He spoke with the utmost mildness, merely glancing at the grinning crew;
yet they sobered as though their mirth had been turned off by a faucet,
and Thorgrim gave the thrall a civil welcome.

"It is a great pity," he continued, addressing the Wrestler, "that you
cannot see the Flesh-Tearer, since you came for that purpose; but it has