They stepped out of the shadow into the light of the leaping flames. On
the farther side of the long fire, men were busy with dripping
bear-steaks and half-plucked fowls; while others bent over the steaming
caldron or stirred the big mead-vat. On the near side, ringed around by
stalwart forms, showing black against the fire-glow, the chief sat at
his ease. The flickering light revealed his bronzed eagle face and the
richness of his gold-embroidered cloak. At his elbow Helga the Fair
waited with his drinking-horn. Tyrker hovered behind him, touching now
his hair and now his broad shoulders with an old man's tremulous
fondness. All were listening reverently to his quick, curt narrative.

Sigurd's laughing carelessness fell from him. He walked forward with the
gallant air that sat so well upon his handsome figure. "Health and
greeting, foster-father!" he said in his clear voice. "I have come back
to you, an outlaw seeking shelter."

Helga spilled the ale in her consternation. The old German began a
nervous plucking at his beard. The heads that had swung around toward
Sigurd, turned back expectantly.

More than one heart sank when it was seen that the chief neither held
out his hand nor moved from his seat. Silver-Tongued and sunny-hearted,
the Jarl's son was well-beloved. There was a long pause, in which there
was no sound but the crackling of flames and the loud sputtering of fat.

At last Leif said sternly, "You are my foster-son, and I love your
father more than anyone else, kinsman or not; yet I cannot offer you
hand or welcome until I know wherein you have broken the law."

Through the breathless hush, Sigurd answered with perfect composure: