inquiring eyes at their youthful captain. At another time they would
not have looked in vain; indeed, in after days Ulf became somewhat
famous even among the men of the fjords for the number of whales he
brought in. But now his soul was elsewhere. Even the problem of
getting back did not trouble him in the least.

Yet it was one thing to start out a-voyaging, sure of bringing up
somewhere if you only went far enough. It is quite another thing to be
equally sure of finding the way homeward over the trackless sea,
without a landmark from horizon to horizon to steer by for weeks and
weeks. What seems a sixth sense is given to some of us--the sense of
"direction," which the passenger pigeon has and which enables it to
fly straight back to its nest, though set free hundreds of miles from
home. When of old a young man had that faculty, the chances were that
he would become a famous pilot; and sometimes he might be charged with
witchcraft as a penalty for knowing too much! Ulf, a son of the
trackless Forest, had that sixth sense.

One morning the dawn-light revealed a black spot on the low horizon. A
speck that grew larger, with twinkling, fin-like flashes along each
side, and in due time it proved to be a galley like their own bearing
down straight for them. Nobody stopped to ask any questions. That was
not sea-style then. But just as naturally as two men now in a lonely
journey would shake hands on meeting, these two captains slipped their
arms through their shield-handles, sheered alongside just beyond oar-
tip, and exchanged cards in the shape of a couple of whistling
javelins.

Up from their benches sprang the rowers. Twang! sung their war-bows
the song of the cord, and the air was full of hissing whispers of