"It must be King Olaf himself!" he murmured, staring.
A head taller than the other tall men, with shoulders a palm's-width broader, the leader sat on his mighty black horse like a second Thor. Light flashed from his steel tunic and gilded helmet. His bronzed face had an eagle's beak for a nose, and eyes of the blue of ice or steel, piercing as a two-edged sword. A white cross was painted on his shield of gold.
As he swept past, he glanced toward the pair by the fence. Catching sight of the sleeping Rolf, he checked his horse sharply, made a motion bidding the others go on without him, and, wheeling, rode back, followed only by a mounted thrall who was evidently his personal attendant. Alwin leaped up and attempted to arouse his companion, but the guardsman saved him the trouble. Leaning out of his saddle, he struck the Wrestler a smart blow with the flat of his sword.
"What now, Rolf Erlingsson!" he demanded, in tones of thunder. "Because I go on a five days' journey, must it happen that my men lie like drunken swine along the roadside? For this you shall feel—"
Before his eyes were fairly open, Rolf was on his feet, tugging at his sword. Luckily, before he thrust, he got a glimpse of his assailant.
"Leif, the son of Eric!" he cried, dropping his weapon. "Welcome! Hail to you!"
The warrior's frown relaxed into a grim smile, as he yielded his hand to his young follower's hearty grip.
"Is it possible that you are sober after all? What in the Fiend's name do you here, asleep by the road in company with a thrall and a purple cloak?"
Rolf relaxed into his customary drawl. "That is unjustly spoken, chief. I have not been asleep. I have found a new and worthy enjoyment. I have been listening while this Englishman read aloud from a Saxon book of saints."
"A Saxon book of saints!" exclaimed the guardsman. "I would see it."