"Do you think that it would be of use if Leif at the same time obtained other shields?" Haasten asked quietly. Ingolf grew a little pale, a fact which did not escape Haasten. For awhile they stood and looked into each other's eyes. There was a strange silence between them. Both felt that now their destinies were being settled. At last Ingolf reached Haasten his hand. "Haasten, my friend," he said in a low voice, "I hope that we will always stand side by side where the word of friendship sounds as well as where weapons speak. But I think Leif would feel a defence of shields as a prison."
Haasten remained standing quite still with his friend's hand in his, and looked into his eyes. Both had a troubled look. Then Haasten said quietly: "You have spoken, and it cannot well be otherwise. Let us each for himself keep a good watch on our brothers. I have a sure foreboding that it will be needed." He gave Ingolf's hand a final pressure and released it. Silently they returned to the tents where Leif stood engaged in friendly and cheerful conversation with Haasten's brothers. Leif had produced the knife which Holmsten gave him, and was showing with gestures and much hilarity how he had succeeded in killing the horse.
"The belt is paid for, Holmsten," he concluded cheerfully. "Your knife, which once should have taken my life, has saved it. If you have an ax, hew at me and make me a present of it afterwards. I need an ax; my father will not give me one. He fears I might test its usefulness a little too much. I have tried to steal one from him. But he has locked the weapons up in a chest which I cannot open."
Leif stopped when Ingolf and Haasten came up. A hasty glance convinced him that something had taken place between the two. They were very quiet. He thrust the knife noisily into its sheath, and involuntarily straightened his body from its careless attitude. Soon after, Haasten and his brothers withdrew. Haasten went straight to his father. "Is the matter arranged?" asked Atle Jarl. "No, I have been considering it," answered Haasten, who did not wish to give his father full information. "I fear that brotherhood with Leif Rodmarsson will cause us too many difficulties."
"Very possibly," answered Atle. "But Ingolf is a good fellow, and will inherit much property. His family has many friends, and will be a good support in disturbed times."
"My friendship with the cousins is independent of their entering brotherhood."
"Perhaps," answered the Jarl dryly. "You are in any case master over your proceedings. My advice was only advice. May you never regret not having followed it."
Haasten, who saw that his father was angry, did not answer, but saluted him respectfully and retired. He was depressed and filled with heavy forebodings, but tried to conceal it as much as possible.
The day began to decline. Atle Jarl had taken measures, and all the arrangements for the feast were ready. The animals destined for sacrifice were not allowed out at all that day. The fine, powerful horses which were to be offered to Odin stood stamping their hoofs impatiently in the stables. A flock of sheep, likewise meant to appease the All-Father, pressed against one another, patiently resigned to their fate, in a pen, rested their heads on each other's backs, and chewed the cud over the last remains of the contents of their stomachs, now and then shaking their ears a little discontentedly. Plump oxen and bulls which, with one exception, should soon bleed in honour of Odin, bellowed in all kinds of tones and butted against the beams of the stalls. In an outhouse lay nine serfs and criminals with their hands tied behind them. They were to be hung in order to join the storm-god's wild hunt. That day it was chiefly Odin who received offerings. But there was also a little diversion destined for Thor. Away in a corner of the outhouse, where the serfs waited for the rope, lay a ragged bundle. It was the serf-woman, Trude, who had been guilty of stealing, and who, as she must somehow say good-bye to life, might as well be utilized as an offering to Thor the Thunderer. When the pale twilight of the evening had drawn its light veil over the landscape, softened its sharp outlines and changed them to vague, shadowy contours, people began to gather round the temple. All their weapons they had left under guard in their tents.
The temple at Gaulum was an old chief temple built long before the house became a Jarl's seat. The dignity of high priest had from time immemorial descended from father to son, and Atle Jarl the Slender had thus inherited it. The temple was a large and spacious edifice, built of heavy beams, with its entrance by a main-wall furnished with gables. Burning and smoking pitch-torches hung fixed in heavy iron rings on the walls, each watched by a serf. On entering, one perceived in this flickering light only indistinct images of gods who sat on their platforms behind a low partition-wall away at the opposite end of the temple. Within the wall no ordinary person ventured to tread; only the priest and his consecrated assistants, helpers in the sacrifice, might go there. The gods sat arranged in a spacious semicircle. There were several of them, both male and female. Most were splendidly dressed, some even adorned with gold rings and precious stones. But the three chief gods, Odin, Thor, and Frey, who sat in the midst of the semicircle, drew the spectator's chief attention. In the centre was enthroned Thor—here, as in many other places in Norway, the chief object of worship. Thor sat in his thunder-chariot, to which were yoked painted goats with gilded horns. The goats were on wheels, as though on the point of drawing the chariot from its place in the chief procession at Thor's festivals. In his right hand Thor held his short-handled hammer high uplifted. He had an awe-inspiring aspect. Straight in front of him was a thin slab of rock with a sharp upper edge, placed edgewise.