The Norsemen in the West

by R. M. Ballantyne

“Greater danger in showing distrust,” replied Karlsefin. “Confidence should beget confidence.”

Without more words he flung down sword and shield, and advanced unarmed to meet the savage, whom he shook warmly by the hand—a style of salutation which Utway thoroughly understood, having learned it while lying wounded in Leifsgaard.

They could not of course make use of speech, but Utway was such a powerful gesticulator that it was not difficult to make out his meaning. After shaking hands he put his hand on his heart, then laid it on Karlsefin’s breast, and pointed towards the old chief with an air that would have done credit to a courtier.

Karlsefin at once took the hand of the savage, and walked with him through the midst of the native chiefs, above whose heads he towered conspicuously, until he stood before Whitepow. Taking off his iron helmet he bowed to the old chief, an act which appeared to afford that worthy much satisfaction, for, although he did not venture to return the bow, he exclaimed “Ho!” with solemn emphasis.

This was all very pleasant, but it was not much. Karlsefin, therefore, tried his hand at a little gesticulation, while the natives gazed at him with speechless interest. Whitepow and Utway then replied with a variety of energetic demonstrations, some of which the Norseman understood, while of others he could make nothing at all, but the result of it all was, that Utway made a final proposal, which was very clear, to the effect that the Norsemen should approach the savages, mingle with them, and be friends.

To this Karlsefin returned a decided negative, by shaking his head and frowning portentously. At the same time he stooped and held his hand about two feet from the ground, as if to indicate something that stood pretty nearly that height. Then he tenderly patted the top of the imaginary thing, whatever it was, and took it up in his arms, kissed it, and laid it on his breast. After that he indicated another thing somewhat higher, which he also patted on the top. Thereafter he pressed his arms close to his side and struggled as if to get loose from something, but could not until he had taken hold of an imaginary knife, cut the something which bound him, and set his arms free.

All this was apparently understood and immensely relished by the natives, who nodded to each other and vociferated “Ho!” to such an extent that the repetition caused it to sound somewhat like a fiendish laugh. But here Whitepow put in his veto, shook his head and appeared inexorable, whereupon Karlsefin crossed his arms on his breast and looked frowningly on the ground.

Things had just reached this uncomfortable pass, when Karlsefin’s eye chanced to fall on the end of a piece of bright scarlet cloth with which Gudrid had smilingly ornamented his neck before he set out on this expedition,—just as a young wife might, in chivalrous ages, have tied a scarf to her knight’s arm before sending him off to the wars.

A sudden idea flashed upon him. He unfastened the strip of cloth, and, advancing, presented it to Whitepow, with a bland smile.

The aged chief was not proof against this. He gazed at the brilliant cloth with intense admiration, and expressed as much delight at receiving it as if he had been a child—which, by the way, he was, in regard to such fabrics and in his inability to restrain his feelings.