After a little, King Olaf said:
“You have made me greatly indebted to you, Erling, but even for your sake I will not break the law nor cast aside my own dignity.”
By a gesture he forbade a reply, and spoke on, asking what had been done with the murderer.
“He sits in irons, upon the doorstep, with his guard,” Erling said, heavily.
Then he roused himself to ask one thing which he thought might not be denied him.
“Lord, it is a year since I have seen him, and we have been blood-brothers since we were children. Give him into my charge this one night, and I will answer for him in the morning.”
After a long time, King Olaf said grimly:
“It is true that to hang a man after sunset is called murder. Take him, then, for the rest of the night. But know for certain that your own life shall pay for it if he escape in any way.”
“It must be as you will,” Erling answered, and went out of the feasting-hall that but a short while before had seemed to him a place of such good cheer.
Upon the doorstep, ironed hand and foot, Sigurd Asbiornsson sat listening quietly to the excited expostulations of his guard. Now that the broad-brimmed hat had fallen off, it could be seen that there was nothing blood-thirsty in his handsome sun-browned face. Strong-willed and proud and hard, it might be, and yet in some delicate curve of his mouth, some light of his fine gray eyes, lay that which won him, unsought, women’s trust and men’s love. He looked up with a smile to meet Erling’s troubled gaze.