"He does not look to be a cooing dove," the trader assented. "But how
came it that he was not slain for this? I have heard that Gilli is a
fretful man."

The Dane snorted. "More than anything else he is greedy for property,
and his wife Bertha advised him not to lose the price he had paid. It is
my belief that she has a liking for the cub; she was an English captive
before the Wealthy One married her. He followed her advice, as was to be
expected, and saddled me with the whelp when I passed through the
district yesterday. I should have sent him to Thor myself," he added
with a suggestive swing of his axe, "but that silver is useful to me
also. I go to join my shipmates in Wisby. And I am in haste, Karl
Grimsson. Take him, and let me have what you think fair."

It seemed as if the trader would never finish the meditative caressing
of his beard, but at last he arose and called for his scales. The Dane
took the little heap of silver rings weighed out to him, and strode out
of the tent. At the same time, he passed out of the English boy's life.
What a pity that the result of their short acquaintance could not have
disappeared with him!

The trader surveyed his new possession, standing straight and slim
before him. "What are you called?" he demanded. "And whence come you?
And of what kin?"

"I am called Alwin," answered the thrall; "and I come from Northumbria."
He hesitated, and the blood mounted to his face. "But I will not tell
you my father's name," he finished proudly, "that you may shame him in
shaming me."