"My name is Olaf," answered the boy.

"Whose son?" asked Sigurd.

At this question Olaf turned aside, threw his pebbles away into the
water, and wiped his wet hands on his coarse kirtle. Then stepping
nearer to the stranger he stood upright and said, almost in a
whisper, as though fearing that even the seagulls might overhear
him:

"I am King Triggvi's son."

Sigurd drew back with a little start.

"King Triggvi's son!" he echoed in surprise. And then he looked yet
more keenly into the boy's face, as if to seek some likeness there.

"Even so," returned Olaf. "And what of that? Little good can it do
me to be a king's son if I am also a slave, made to work hard for
my daily portion of black bread and tough horse flesh. Triggvi
is in Valhalla, with Harald Fairhair and the rest of them, and he
cannot help me now. But Odin be thanked, he died not like a cow
upon a bed of straw, but with sword in hand like a brave good man."

"A brave good man in truth he was," said Sigurd. "But tell me,
boy, what token have you to prove that you are indeed the child
of Triggvi Olafson? You are but ten winters old, you say; and yet,
as I reckon it, Triggvi was slain full ten winters back. How can
I know the truth of what you tell?"