"That old heathen at the steering-oar! All the bad luck in the world may be expected!"—"Nowhere lives a man more domineering than Eric the Red." "What is to become of Leif's renown, if the glory is to go to that old pagan?"—"Skroppa has turned a curse against the Lucky One. He has been deprived of his mind."
"It is in my mind that part of that is true," Rolf said thoughtfully, leaning on the spear-shaft he was sharpening. "I believe the Saxon Saints' Book has bewitched his reason. From that, I have heard the Englishman read of men who gave up honor lest it might make them vain. I believe Leif Ericsson is humbling his pride, like some beaten monk."
He was interrupted by a chorus of disgust. "Yah! If he has become such a woman as that!"—"A man who fears bad luck."—"A brave man bears the result of his action, whatever it is."—"The Saints' Book is befitting old men who have lost their teeth."—"Christianity is a religion for women."
Sigurd struck in for the first time. Although he had been frowning with vexation, some touch of compunction had held him silent. "I will not allow you to say that, nor should you wish to speak so." He hesitated, rubbing his chin perplexedly. "I acknowledge that I experience the same disgust that you do; yet I am not altogether certain that we are right. I remember hearing my father say that what these saints did was more difficult than any achievement of Thor. And I have heard King Olaf Trygvasson read out of the Holy Book that a man who controls his own passions is more to be admired than a man who conquers a city."
For perhaps two or three minutes there was a lull in the grumbling. But it was not to be expected, in that brutal age, that moral strength should find a keen appreciation. Indeed, Sigurd's words were far from ringing with his own conviction. Little by little, the discontent broke out again. At last it grew so near to mutiny, that the steersman felt called upon to exercise his authority.
"All this is foolishly spoken, concerning something you know nothing of. Undoubtedly Leif has an excellent reason for what he does. It may be that he considers it of the greatest importance to secure Eric's friendship. Or it may be that he intends to lead him into some uninhabited place, that he may kill him and get rid of his ill-temper. It is certain that he has some good reason. Go back to your work, and make your minds easy that now, as always, some good will result from his actions."
The men still growled as they obeyed him; but however right or wrong he was regarding Leif's motives, he was proved correct in his prophecy. Out of that moment on shore, came the good of a complete reconciliation with Eric. No more were there cold shoulders, and half-veiled gibes, and long evenings of gloomy restraint. No longer were Leif's followers obliged to sit with teeth on their tongues and hands on their swords. The warmth of gratification that had melted the ice of Eric's displeasure seemed to have set free torrents of generosity and good-will. His ruddy face beamed above the board like a harvest moon; if Leif would have accepted it, he would have presented him with the entire contents of Brattahlid. Following their chief's example, his retainers locked arms with their former enemies and swore them eternal brotherhood. Night after night they drank out of the same horns, and strengthened their bonds in lauding their chiefs. Never had the great hall seen a time of such radiant good cheer.
By the last week of Leif's preparations, interest and enthusiasm had spread into every corner of inhabited Greenland. Strings of people began to make pilgrimages to stare at the exploring vessel that had once been within sight of the "wonder-shores" and now seemed destined actually to touch them. Men came from ail parts of the country in the hope of joining her crew, and were furious with disappointment when told that her equipment was limited to thirty-five, and that that number had already been made up from among Leif's own followers. Warriors thronged to visit the Lucky One, until the hall benches were filled, and the courtyard was so crowded with attendants that there was barely room for the servants to run between the horses with the ale horns. Outside the fence there was nearly always a mob of children and paupers and thralls lying in wait, like a wolf-pack, to tear information out of any member of the household who should venture beyond the gates.
Usually it was only vague rumor and meagre report that fell to the share of these outsiders; but the day before Leif's departure it happened that they got a bit of excitement first-hand.
Late that afternoon word went around that the trading-ship of Arnor Gunnarsson was coming up Eric's Fiord. The arrival of that merchant was one of the events of the year. Not only did it occasion great feasting among the rich, which meant additional alms among the poor, but besides a chance to feast one's stomach, it meant an opportunity to feast one's eyes on beautiful garments and wonderful weapons; and in addition to all else, it meant such a budget of news and gossip and thrilling yarns as should supply local conversation with a year's stock of topics,—a stock always run low and rather shopworn towards the end of the long winters. At the first hint of the "Eastman's" approach, a crowd of idlers was gathered out of nowhere as quickly as buzzards are drawn out of empty space.