It was exactly a week when they returned. They ate once more of the little store of flad bröd, were blessed by the blind Agra, and went, singing “The Star-Spangled Banner,” back along the sea road, as they had come, loath to leave the young Viking who had stepped out of the tenth century for them. He watched them out of sight and then choked in his throat. For, at the waving of their hands, where the road was lost to view, all that largess of which they had communed was gone. He thought to run and follow them, but he heard a song—yet turned and strode the beach with a great exultation. The song came nearer, but not more rapidly than his resolution crystallized. And when she who sang came in sight of him, he was looking obliviously out upon the booming ocean, his hand above his eyes, as if trying to pierce the misty horizon which baffled his vision, and where lay that exulting world of liberty. And she who sung was glad to see him thus. For he was the goodliest being she had ever had in her heart. His tunic was a black wolf’s skin—his legs were swathed in other skins—the fur turned in—and gartered with strips of furred hide—about his neck was a string of wolf’s teeth—on his feet were huge shoes of skin such as his robe—his hair was fair and long—his head was never covered. She ceased her song and came before him. Yet he gazed. “Soul of my soul, what seest thou?” she asked. He came back with a sigh and smile for her. “‘The Land of the Brave and the Home of the Free.’” “Nay, for that thou wouldst look at thy feet. For thou standest on the land of the brave. And the home of the free is yonder.” “The land of a despot,” he laughed, “asking all, giving naught.” “Then thou art its despot—for it is thy land—thou art its king. Oh, it is small I grant! But it is ours. No other land can ever be. Our fathers dying gave it to us.” “See!” he cried, turning what the travellers had given him into a prodigal golden shower from his scrip upon the ground. “What is it?” asked the girl. “Money. Gold! Enough to take me to their land. They said so.” “To their land? You?” At once great fear fell on her. “It is naught. A little journey by the sea road—a week—and one is there! They come and go each summer. They will come again the next.” “But thou—thou wilt not go?” “I will,” he nodded. “Forsake thy country?” “Yea.” “That was our fathers’ basest treason.” He laughed. “And thou hast sworn to the priest—” He laughed again. “But evil will come from the breach of thy solemn oath—it must. God is not mocked.” “I have not said that I will break my oath, nor do a treason, beloved one,” he said. “Can one not go and see this wondrous land?” “Yea. But temptation is in thine eyes.” He laughed and sighed and answered: “Yea!”—fingering the strange coins. Then, tempting her also, he said: “Come with me thence?” “I?” The one little word told him how impossible that was. “Yea, there are the old and blind and simple to be cared for. I forgot.”