leaped up and attempted to arouse his companion, but the guardsman saved
him the trouble. Leaning out of his saddle, he struck the Wrestler a
smart blow with the flat of his sword.

"What now, Rolf Erlingsson!" he demanded, in tones of thunder. "Because
I go on a five days' journey, must it happen that my men lie like
drunken swine along the roadside? For this you shall feel--"

Before his eyes were fairly open, Rolf was on his feet, tugging at his
sword. Luckily, before he thrust, he got a glimpse of his assailant.

"Leif, the son of Eric!" he cried, dropping his weapon. "Welcome! Hail
to you!"

The warrior's frown relaxed into a grim smile, as he yielded his hand to
his young follower's hearty grip.

"Is it possible that you are sober after all? What in the Fiend's name
do you here, asleep by the road in company with a thrall and a purple
cloak?"

Rolf relaxed into his customary drawl. "That is unjustly spoken, chief.
I have not been asleep. I have found a new and worthy enjoyment. I have
been listening while this Englishman read aloud from a Saxon book of
saints."

"A Saxon book of saints!" exclaimed the guardsman. "I would see it."

When its owner had handed it up, he looked it through hastily, yet
turning the leaves with reverence, and crossing himself whenever he