"Oh, tuts! They had Scalds to sing their history—much nicer than your musty books."
"Perhaps!" said the girl. She loved books with a mighty love, but she adored her brother, and what he said she accepted, whether it commended itself to her judgment or not.
"There is no 'perhaps' about it, Signy," he retorted a little sharply. "It is fact—so there! It must have been far more jolly in Shetland then than it is now. Everything so tame and commonplace: mail-day once a week, sermon every Sunday, custom-house officers about, chimney-pot hats and tea! Bah!" Yaspard caught up a pebble and flung it to skim over the water as a relief to his feelings, which received a little additional comfort from Signy's next words.
"Hats are certainly very ugly, especially when they are tied on with strings, as Uncle Brüs wears his; and when a sermon lasts an hour it is tiresome. Yes, and the custom-house people and the revenue cutter are horrid—though the cutter is very pretty, and the officers look rather nice in uniform. But it is very nice to get letters, Yaspard; and tea is nice. Why, what on earth would Mam Kirsty and Aunt Osla do without tea?" and Signy laughed as she looked up in her brother's face.
He was not unreasonable, and admitted the comfort of the cup which cheers and a weekly mail-bag. He even allowed that the sloop which looked after her Majesty's dues was a tidy little craft, and that a kirk and Sunday service were advantages of no ordinary kind. "But," having admitted so much, he said, "why couldn't we have all that, and still be Vikings? why not live like heroes? why not roam the seas, and fight and discover and bring home spoil, and wear picturesque garments, as well as go to church and drink tea?"
"Well, people do," answered Signy. "There is always somebody going exploring and getting into the most terrible scrapes. And don't you often say that the British people are true sons of the Norsemen, and prove it by the way they are always sending out more and more ships, and bringing home more and more riches. As for the fighting—oh dear! There was Waterloo not so very very long ago; and the papers say, you know, that we are going to fight the Russians very soon. There's always plenty of fighting—if that's what makes a Viking."
"Oh, bother! girls don't understand," Yaspard muttered; and then there was a long silence, which was broken at last by the lad clapping his hands together and shouting, "Hurrah! I've got an idea! a splendid idea! The very thing!" He sprang to his feet and tossed back his golden-brown curls, and stood like a young Apollo all aglow with life and ardour.
"You always look so beautiful, Yaspard, when you have an idea!" said the worshipping little sister, gazing her admiration of the handsome lad, who was the hero of all her dreams.
He laughed. He was accustomed to her homage—if the truth be told, he took it as his right.
"Never mind about my beauty at present, but come along, for I must set my idea to work at once. I wonder I never thought of it before."