Well the great beast on the floe knew what was to be found in good time beneath that snow crust, and his long-haired paws had made no sound when he first had crept like a shadow to the spot. Now at last the time had come. The first faint tinkle of water lapping in the hole had caught his watchful ear. Yet still he waited; waited while the breathing grew plainer as the snow grew thin; raised himself ever so slowly and rustleless, and until the first little whiff of steam burst through; then—then—down on each side plunged the resistless sets of curved daggers! down between plunged the wolf-trap mouth, and with an ease that would make one forget how heavy a seal is, this one was flirted out of his hole and sent rolling yards away, only to be pounced on a second later, with an exultant roar that echoed from berg to berg until a great fragment split off from one and crashed into splinters at its base. Then the echoes were fine indeed as they rumbled along the glittering plain.
The bear enjoyed his dinner. He had waited long for it and so perhaps deserved it. But it was not wise of him to pay it quite such close attention, and for the moment fail to keep ears or eyes alert to other things. Even as it was, however, a sound caught his attention—an odd, hissing, whistling noise,—and he raised his long, snaky neck and head, now dyed a brilliant red, and dripping frightfully. Yes, he was not mistaken. Something was coming, and he stirred uneasily. Not that he was afraid,—of what living creature in those days was a Rider of the Berg ever afraid?—but he might have to fight for his dinner. Perhaps he remembered meeting such a creature once before and the fight that came of it. It was a good dinner that followed, but it was many days before certain wounds of his own had healed; at all events, it was well to be ready.
On came the figure as swiftly as a bird, glittering in the light like an icicle. The bear began half not to like it, and expressed his displeasure at such uncanny work by uttering a curse deep in his shaggy throat, a curse that came snarling through ivory fangs already tinged with red; but never a second paused that flying form. Long leads of ice around were glassy, and down the nearest lane among the rougher patches, hist!—swist! flashed the darting feet. And as the skater passed in full flight, followed by the ever-turning, wrathful, watchful, shaggy head, up went the short sea-bow, backed with whalebone. Tsang! and swift as light an arrow, drawn to the head, had crossed the space and buried its length nearly to the feather in the mass of yellow hair.
Like an uncoiled spring round snapped the roaring head, and bit savagely at the spot where the arrow had already bitten deeper, and then with wonderful speed the furious beast stretched himself in keen pursuit. If that smooth road should come to an end!—but the skater had vanished behind a berg. Hist!—swist! Here he comes again, from round the other side, and down another lane. Another arrow glances in the sun, and again for a second a stinging wound receives a needless bite. Time lost! and time, O Bear, is of value, did you but know it. Twice already has that fierce sting bitten deeply into your joints, and both hind feet move now strangely slow, feet which used to carry you swiftly as any deer. Beware the third!
Silently came again the mail-clad skater—voiceless, save for the whistling of his flight,—and undaunted still the enraged monster rushed to meet him, only to meet, baffled, yet another shaft in the tenderest spot in his shoulder, that gave to the severed sinew and let him drop on it so heavily that it completed the mischief done. And now for the first time in his life the polar bear felt fear. His keen wit told him that in such war he was mastered. He ceased to rush madly onward. He settled slowly on his torn haunches, and swayed this way and that on his one sound foreleg, till that too gave way and he sank in a shapeless heap.
Back came Ulf, swirling, wildly exultant, casting away bow and quiver. A slash of his knife freed his feet, and with a bound he sprang on the rough ice, axe in belt, spear in hand, on his feet small irons that would keep them from slipping. In a dozen strides he was ready for the thrust and made it. Then Ulf's brave heart stood still for one dread throb. Like the ward of a boxer up came the great white forearm, and the spear only glanced along the hair. Like the stroke of a serpent the long neck shot upward, the furious jaws crunched into the shaft, and with a sharp side-shake, snap! snap! in three pieces flew the splintered wood. Now for the throat!
It was all so awfully sudden! No time to think, to plan, to evade! Just time to snatch from belt his keen little axe, to fling out the weaponless left hand and catch with it from below that murderous lower jaw, then, with all his own wildcat quickness and last ounce of strength, to strike!
It was a wonderful blow, men said afterward—so fairly in line between the eyes that no scale could detect a waver, yet far enough back to go crashing down helve-deep through the brain till it touched somewhere the spinal cord, the one great nerve of life that carries the brain's messages to the limbs, and without which they are dead. And Ulf, still staring into the glowing coals that gleamed in the eyesockets of his enemy, felt, rather than saw, the light flicker out like candles as the red-stained head dropped to his blow with a sinking of the whole frame about which there could be no mistake. Axe fell with head, and the handle clattered on the ice.
Yes, it was a wonderful blow; and when Ulf looked at the black, hurrying knot of his slowfooted men and down at the result, and knew in his soul what other results would follow, the blood came surging back from his heart in a mighty tide of joy. Now he was a man! Now he was a Northman of the Northmen! Now he would have a name of his own! And over the wild waste of ice rang out the war-cry of the Northman, of the Viking, the one who made and unmade kings,