“‘Ah!’ says the crow, when she lay a-dying, ‘my blood is on my own head. If I had but left the sparhawk between me and this great tyrant!’

“And so the eagle got all three woods to himself.”

At which the Vikings laughed more loudly than ever; and King Ranald, chuckling at the notion of eating up the hapless Irish princes one by one, sent back the priest (not without a present for his church, for Ranald was a pious man) to tell the great O’Brodar, that unless he sent into Waterford by that day week two hundred head of cattle, a hundred pigs, a hundredweight of clear honey, and as much of wax, Ranald would not leave so much as a sucking-pig alive in Ivark.

The cause of quarrel, of course, was too unimportant to be mentioned. Each had robbed and cheated the other half a dozen times in the last twenty years. As for the morality of the transaction, Ranald had this salve for his conscience,—that as he intended to do to O’Brodar, so would O’Brodar have gladly done to him, had he been living peaceably in Norway, and O’Brodar been strong enough to invade and rob him. Indeed, so had O’Brodar done already, ever since he wore beard, to every chieftain of his own race whom he was strong enough to ill-treat. Many a fair herd had he driven off, many a fair farm burnt, many a fair woman carried off a slave, after that inveterate fashion of lawless feuds which makes the history of Celtic Ireland from the earliest times one dull and aimless catalogue of murder and devastation, followed by famine and disease; and now, as he had done to others, so it was to be done to him.

“And now, young sir, who seem as witty as you are good looking, you may, if you will, tell us your name and your business. As for the name, however, if you wish to keep it to yourself, Ranald Sigtrygsson is not the man to demand it of an honest guest.”

Hereward looked round and saw Teague MacMurrough standing close to him, harp in hand. He took it from him courteously enough, put a silver penny into the minstrel’s hand, and running his fingers over the strings, rose and began,—

 
  “Outlaw and free thief,
   Landless and lawless
   Through the world fare I,
   Thoughtless of life.
   Soft is my beard, but
   Hard my Brain-biter.
   Wake, men me call, whom
   Warrior or watchman
   Never caught sleeping,
   Far in Northumberland
   Slew I the witch-bear,
   Cleaving his brain-pan,
   At one stroke I felled him.”
 

And so forth, chanting all his doughty deeds, with such a voice and spirit joined to that musical talent for which he was afterwards so famous, till the hearts of the wild Norsemen rejoiced, and “Skall to the stranger! Skall to the young Viking!” rang through the hall.

Then showing proudly the fresh wounds on his bare arms, he sang of his fight with the Cornish ogre, and his adventure with the Princess. But always, though he went into the most minute details, he concealed the name both of her and of her father, while he kept his eyes steadily fixed on Ranald’s eldest son, Sigtryg, who sat at his father’s right hand.

The young man grew uneasy, red, almost angry; till at last Hereward sang,—

 
  “A gold ring she gave me
   Right royally dwarf-worked,
   To none will I pass it
   For prayer or for sword-stroke,
   Save to him who can claim it
   By love and by troth plight,
   Let that hero speak
   If that hero be here.”
 

Young Sigtryg half started from his feet: but when Hereward smiled at him, and laid his finger on his lips, he sat down again. Hereward felt his shoulder touched from behind. One of the youths who had risen when he sat down bent over him, and whispered in his ear,—

“Ah, Hereward, we know you. Do you not know us? We are the twins, the sons of your sister, Siward the White and Siward the Red, the orphans of Asbiorn Siwardsson, who fell at Dunsinane.”

Hereward sprang up, struck the harp again, and sang,—

 
“Outlaw and free thief,
  My kinsfolk have left me,
  And no kinsfolk need I
  Till kinsfolk shall need me.
  My sword is my father,
  My shield is my mother,
  My ship is my sister,
  My horse is my brother.”
 

“Uncle, uncle,” whispered one of them, sadly, “listen now or never, for we have bad news for you and us. Your father is dead, and Earl Algar, your brother, here in Ireland, outlawed a second time.”

A flood of sorrow passed through Hereward’s heart. He kept it down, and rising once more, harp in hand,—

 
   “Hereward, king, hight I,
    Holy Leofric my father,
    In Westminster wiser
    None walked with King Edward.
    High minsters he builded,
    Pale monks he maintained.
    Dead is he, a bed-death,
    A leech-death, a priest-death,
    A straw-death, a cow’s death.
    Such doom I desire not.
    To high heaven, all so softly,
    The angels uphand him,
    In meads of May flowers
    Mild Mary will meet him.
    Me, happier, the Valkyrs
    Shall waft from the war-deck,
    Shall hail from the holmgang
    Or helmet-strewn moorland.
    And sword-strokes my shrift be,
    Sharp spears be my leeches,
    With heroes’ hot corpses
    High heaped for my pillow.”
 

“Skall to the Viking!” shouted the Danes once more, at this outburst of heathendom, common enough among their half-converted race, in times when monasticism made so utter a divorce between the life of the devotee and that of the worldling, that it seemed reasonable enough for either party to have their own heaven and their own hell. After all, Hereward was not original in his wish. He had but copied the death-song which his father’s friend and compeer, Siward Digre, the victor of Dunsinane, had sung for himself some three years before.

All praised his poetry, and especially the quickness of his alliterations (then a note of the highest art); and the old king filling not this time the horn, but a golden goblet, bid him drain it and keep the goblet for his song.

Young Sigtryg leapt up, and took the cup to Hereward. “Such a scald,” he said, “ought to have no meaner cup-bearer than a king’s son.”

Hereward drank it dry; and then fixing his eyes meaningly on the Prince, dropt the Princess’s ring into the cup, and putting it back into Sigtryg’s hand, sang,—

 
   “The beaker I reach back
    More rich than I took it.
    No gold will I grasp
    Of the king’s, the ring-giver,
    Till, by wit or by weapon,
    I worthily win it.
    When brained by my biter
    O’Brodar lies gory,
    While over the wolf’s meal
    Fair widows are wailing.”
 

“Does he refuse my gift?” grumbled Ranald.

“He has given a fair reason,” said the Prince, as he hid the ring in his bosom; “leave him to me; for my brother in arms he is henceforth.”

After which, as was the custom of those parts, most of them drank too much liquor. But neither Sigtryg nor Hereward drank; and the two Siwards stood behind their young uncle’s seat, watching him with that intense admiration which lads can feel for a young man.

That night, when the warriors were asleep, Sigtryg and Hereward talked out their plans. They would equip two ships; they would fight all the kinglets of Cornwall at once, if need was; they would carry off the Princess, and burn Alef’s town over his head, if he said nay. Nothing could be more simple than the tactics required in an age when might was right.

Then Hereward turned to his two nephews who lingered near him, plainly big with news.

“And what brings you here, lads?” He had hardened his heart, and made up his mind to show no kindness to his own kin. The day might come when they might need him; then it would be his turn.

“Your father, as we told you, is dead.”

“So much the better for him, and the worse for England. And Harold and the Godwinssons, of course, are lords and masters far and wide?”

“Tosti has our grandfather Siward’s earldom.”

“I know that. I know, too, that he will not keep it long, unless he learns that Northumbrians are free men, and not Wessex slaves.”

“And Algar our uncle is outlawed again, after King Edward had given him peaceably your father’s earldom.”

“And why?”

“Why was he outlawed two years ago?”

“Because the Godwinssons hate him, I suppose.”

“And Algar is gone to Griffin, the Welshman, and from him on to Dublin to get ships, just as he did two years ago; and has sent us here to get ships likewise.”

“And what will he do with them when he has got them? He burnt Hereford last time he was outlawed, by way of a wise deed, minster and all, with St. Ethelbert’s relics on board; and slew seven clergymen: but they were only honest canons with wives at home, and not shaveling monks, so I suppose that sin was easily shrived. Well, I robbed a priest of a few pence, and was outlawed; he plunders and burns a whole minster, and is made a great earl for it. One law for the weak and one for the strong, young lads, as you will know when you are as old as I. And now I suppose he will plunder and burn more minsters, and then patch up a peace with Harold again; which I advise him strongly to do; for I warn you, young lads, and you may carry that message from me to Dublin to my good brother your uncle, that Harold’s little finger is thicker than his whole body; and that, false Godwinsson as he is, he is the only man with a head upon his shoulders left in England, now that his father, and my father, and dear old Siward, whom I loved better than my father, are dead and gone.”

The lads stood silent, not a little awed, and indeed imposed on, by the cynical and worldly-wise tone which their renowned uncle had assumed.

At last one of them asked, falteringly, “Then you will do nothing for us?”

“For you, nothing. Against you, nothing. Why should I mix myself up in my brother’s quarrels? Will he make that white-headed driveller at Westminster reverse my outlawry? And if he does, what shall I get thereby? A younger brother’s portion; a dirty ox-gang of land in Kesteven. Let him leave me alone as I leave him, and see if I do not come back to him some day, for or against him as he chooses, with such a host of Vikings’ sons as Harold Hardraade himself would be proud of. By Thor’s hammer, boys, I have been an outlaw but five years now, and I find it so cheery a life, that I do not care if I am an outlaw for fifty more. The world is a fine place and a wide place; and it is a very little corner of it that I have seen yet; and if you were of my mettle, you would come along with me and see it throughout to the four corners of heaven, instead of mixing yourselves up in these paltry little quarrels with which our two families are tearing England in pieces, and being murdered perchance like dogs at last by treachery, as Sweyn Godwinsson murdered Biorn.”

The boys listened, wide-eyed and wide-eared. Hereward knew to whom he was speaking; and he had not spoken in vain.

“What do you hope to get here?” he went on. “Ranald will give you no ships: he will have enough to do to fight O’Brodar; and he is too cunning to thrust his head into Algar’s quarrels.”

“We hoped to find Vikings here, who would go to any war on the hope of plunder.”

“If there be any, I want them more than you; and, what is more, I will have them. They know that they will do finer deeds with me for their captain than burning a few English homesteads. And so may you. Come with me, lads. Once and for all, come. Help me to fight O’Brodar. Then help me to another little adventure which I have on hand,—as pretty a one as ever you heard a minstrel sing,—and then we will fit out a longship or two, and go where fate leads,—to Constantinople, if you like. What can you do better? You never will get that earldom from Tosti. Lucky for young Waltheof, your uncle, if he gets it,—if he, and you too, are not murdered within seven years; for I know Tosti’s humor, when he has rivals in his way–”

“Algar will protect us,” said one.

“I tell you, Algar is no match for the Godwinssons. If the monk-king died to-morrow, neither his earldom nor his life would be safe. When I saw your father Asbiorn lie dead at Dunsinane, I said, ‘There ends the glory of the house of the bear;’ and if you wish to make my words come false, then leave England to founder and rot and fall to pieces,—as all men say she is doing,—without your helping to hasten her ruin; and seek glory and wealth too with me around the world! The white bear’s blood is in your veins, lads. Take to the sea like your ancestor, and come over the swan’s bath with me!”

“That we will!” said the two lads. And well they kept their word.