midst of them, Hakon, King of Sogn, one of the independent
kinglings who reigned in the then chaotic Norway, watched the
departure of his son.

He was a venerable figure, conspicuous by his long, wintry locks
and embroidered cloak of blue, straight as a spear-shaft, but
grown too old for warfare. His hand rested on the shoulder of Earl
Sigvald of Askland, a bluff old warrior, long the king's most
faithful counsellor and companion in arms. Before them stood his
son Estein, a tall, auburn-haired, bright-eyed young man, gaily
dressed, after the fashion of the times, in red kirtle and cloak,
and armed as yet only with a gilded helmet, surmounted with a pair
of hawk's wings, and a sword girt to his side. His face, though
regular and handsome, would have been rather too grave and
reserved but for the keenness of his eyes, and a very pleasant
smile which at times lit up his features when he spoke.

After they had talked for a while, he glanced round him, and saw
that the bustle was subsiding, and most of the men had gone
aboard.

"All is ready now," he said.

"Ay," replied Thorkel Sigurdson, one of his ship captains, "they
wait but for us."

"Farewell then, Estein!" cried the earl. "Thor speed you, and send
you worthy foemen!"

"My son, I can ill spare you," said the king. "But it becomes a