On the decked poop of an open boat, sailing over an ocean unknown
to him, towards countries of whose whereabouts he was only vaguely
informed, Estein Hakonson stood lost in stirring fancies. He was
the only surviving son of the King of Sogn. Three brothers had
fallen in battle, one had perished at sea, and another, the
eldest, had died beneath a burning roof-tree. His education had
been conducted according to the only standard known in
Scandinavia. At fourteen he had slain his first man in fair fight;
at seventeen he was a Viking captain on the Baltic; and now, at
two-and-twenty--old far beyond his years and hardened in varied
experience--he was setting forth on the Viking path that led to
the wonderful countries of the south.

The tide of Norse energy was not yet at the full, the fury and the
terror were waxing fast, and the fever of unrest was ever
spreading through the North. Men were always coming back with
tales of monasteries filled with untold wealth, and rich provinces
to be won by the sword. Skalds sang of the deeds done in the
south, and shiploads of spoil confirmed their lays. Little wonder
then that Estein should feel his heart beat high as he stood by
the great tiller.

That night, long after the sun was set, he still sat on deck
watching the stars. By-and-by his foster-brother Helgi came up to
him, wrapped in a long sea cloak, and humming softly to himself.

"The night is fair, Estein. If Thor is kind, and this wind speeds
us, we shall soon reach England."

"Ay, if the gods are with us," answered Estein. "I am trying to