“That will I,” laughed Hereward boisterously.
“You are tipsy,” said she, “and do not know what you say.”
“You are angry, and do not know what you say. Hearken, proud lass. I will take care of one thing, and that is, that you shall speak the truth.”
“Did I not say that you were tipsy?”
“Pish! You said that I was a Berserker. And truth you shall speak; for baresark I go to-morrow to the war, and baresark I win that mare or die.”
“That will be very fit for you.”
And the two turned haughtily from each other.
Ere Torfrida went to bed that night, there was a violent knocking. Angry as she was, she was yet anxious enough to hurry out of her chamber, and open the door herself.
Martin Lightfoot stood there with a large leather case, which he flung at her feet somewhat unceremoniously.
“There is some gear of yours,” said he, as it clanged and rattled on the floor.