From the place where they sat neither their own boat nor Leif’s could be seen—only the landward opening of the inlet.
Presently approaching footsteps were heard. The two friends rose. A moment later and Heika stood before them. He stopped abruptly on beholding them, and his eyes blazed with astonishment, rage, and despair. Suddenly he looked round as if in search of a weapon, or of a way of escape.
“Be wise, lad,” said Leif, kindly yet very gravely; “no evil will come of it if ye are wise, and take your misfortunes like a man.”
Heika was subdued by the gentle tone. He crossed his arms on his heaving chest, and stood erect before them with his head slightly drooped, and a look of profound sadness, rather than disappointment, on his countenance.
“Come hither, Heika,” said Leif, pointing seaward, “I have somewhat to show thee.”
They went down the beach till they stood beside the boat, which was ready for sea.
“This is a strange sight,” he continued; “here is an excellent boat, well found, well loaded, well busked in every way for a long voyage. Knowest thou aught in regard to it, Heika?”
“I know,” answered the Scot, bitterly, “that if ye had come hither only half-an-hour later, that boat would have been on its way with me to Scotland.”
“What, with you alone?”
“Ay—with me alone.”