Now came up from the valley a loud sound of harping and the braying of thousands of war-horns, followed by a great shout that ran along the lines as one body of troops after another caught its meaning and passed it on.
"On, men! Ride forward! Lars, son of Vebba, yonder cometh King Hardrada. He revieweth his army before it goeth on ship-board. Thou wilt hasten to deliver to him the greeting of thy father. Let Ned, the son of Webb, ride with thee. I go to the shore speedily, to seek our shipping. This errand is thine." So spoke the veteran warrior in charge of this party of Vebba's men, and all rode rapidly onward.
"This is awful!" thought Ned. "I hope the king will have little to say to me. I wouldn't know what on earth is the correct way of talking back to him."
He did not have many minutes more of riding, nevertheless, before Lars, the son of Vebba, said to him:
"Pull in, Ned. We will halt at the right front of this nearest square of men, and wait for the king. See thou! He and his jarls and captains come this way. I am not of full age that I may ride to meet him."
Only a man of rank or a warrior of fame, it appeared, might presume to go out in front of the lines to greet the royal company, and Ned began at once to breathe more freely.
"I will keep a little back," he said to Father Brian. "We will let Lars do the talking."
"That will not I!" exclaimed the rosy-faced Irishman. "Any half-heathen king like him is no better than the rest of us; besides that, I am a missionary from Clontarf. I will speak my mind to him."
He consented, however, to halt with the rest and wait for the king to come.