Still there was no reply; therefore Snorro, stirred by the blood which had descended to him through a long line of illustrious and warlike sea-kings, lost his temper, stamped his feet, and screeched with passion.
Nothing resulting, he changed his mood, shouted “O’af!” once more, in heartrending accents, and—with his eyes half-shut and mouth wide open, his arms and hands helplessly pendent, his legs astraddle, and his whole aspect what is expressively styled in the Norse tongue begrutten—howled in abject despair!
In this condition he was found by the bear party not many minutes later, and in another moment he was sobbing out his heart and sorrows into the sympathetic bosom of his dearly-loved friend.
“What is it, Snorrie? What’s the matter?” inquired Olaf tenderly.
“Hik!—Me—hup!—O!—want—hif!—wak,” replied the sobbing child.
“It wants to walk, does it? So it shall, my bold little man. There, dry its eyes and get on my back, hup!—now, away we go! I’ll be back soon,” he said to Biarne, who stood laughing at them. “Be sure that you keep the claws of the bear for me.—Now, Snorrie, off and away! hurrah!”
“Hoo’ah!” echoed Snorro, as, holding tight with both his fat arms round Olaf’s neck, he was borne away into the wilderness.
Olaf’s usual mode of proceeding was as follows:
First he dashed along the track of the woodcutters for about half a mile. It was a good broad track, which at first had been cleared by the axe, and afterwards well beaten by the constant passage of men and horses with heavy loads of timber. Then he stopped and set Snorro on his legs, and, going down on his knees before him, laughed in his face. You may be sure that Snorro returned the laugh with right good-will.
“Whereaway next, Snorrie?”