"I should go for him with a rifle, at long range," said Ned. "Hullo! Father Brian! There's the king's own ship, ahead of us, going right into the Humber. We are all to follow him, they said. That land yonder is England!"
"Hurrah for that!" shouted the good missionary. "The next ship behind Hardrada's is Tostig's. Hark to the war-horns! All the Vikings will be going blood wild! Ah, my boy, there'll be hard fighting before long. It's not one battle that'll conquer England,—or Ireland either, for that matter."
All the ships in sight were obeying their orders to follow the king. The wind had gone down, and they could fall into line all the better for being propelled by oars. As Ned remarked, oars were as good as steam, for that business, so far as they went. The fleet made a splendid appearance, and it was a sight worth seeing to watch so many banks of long oars dipping and lifting together.
"It is a tremendous show," said Ned to Father Brian, "but the Kentucky could make it look as if there'd been a fire in half an hour."
"Speak Latin," said the missionary. "What is that thou wert saying? I don't know one word of Saxon. It's a tongue they'll all get rid of when they're conquered."
Ned made an effort to explain himself, but it was of no use, for his friend knew nothing about gunpowder.
"It's a kind of witchcraft, most likely," was the good man's pious conclusion. "All of them ought to be burned, and they will be. It's not a country like England that can be civilised in that way. It hath been on my mind, though, that if the Northmen and Duke William kill off the Saxons, we could send over enough of the right kind of men from Ireland to make a fine land of it."
"You could do that," replied Ned. "Loads and loads of Irish have come over to our country, and after they get there they all turn into Americans."
"That's witchcraft," again grumbled Father Brian. "What's the good of them if they all become heathen themselves?"
Before Ned could decide exactly what to say to that point, a loud shout came to him from Lars.