"Ay," said Ketill; "on, on!"
Towards evening the head of the column emerged into a small clearing, and the foster-brothers, who were marching in the middle, heard a cry from the van. Then Ketill's gruff voice called out,—
"After him! Nay, slay him not! Have you got him? Ay, bring the knave to Estein."
The little army came to a halt, and a poor-looking man, clad in a skin coat, and trembling violently as they dragged him along, was brought before Estein.
"Spare my life, noble captain!" he pleaded, casting himself on his knees. "I am but a poor man, I beseech you."
"Silence, rascal!" thundered Ketill, "or we will have your coward's tongue out by the root."
"Tell me, if you value your life, what means this solitude?" Estein demanded sternly. "Nay, shake not like an old man with palsy, but speak the truth—if by chance a Jemtlander knows what truth is. Where are the people?"
"Noble earl, they have heard of your coming, and fled. No man will await you; you will see none in the country."
"Do none mean to fight?" asked Helgi.
"Great prince," replied the fellow, "the Jemtlanders were never a warlike race. Even the king, I hear, is prepared to fly."