Men on the dock cried out with pleasure, looking on the harshly roped beauty of the slender, blondish girl, so cruelly fastened, back bent, at the prow of the Forkbeard’s serpent.

“I have eighteen others!” called Ivar Forkbeard. His men, laughing, thrust the other girls forward, to the rail, forcing them to stand on the rowing benches.

“Heat the irons!” called the Forkbeard.

“They are hot!” laughed a brawny man, in leather apron, standing on the dock.

The girls shuddered. They would be branded.

“Bring the anvil to the branding log!” said the Forkbeard.

They knew then they would wear collars.

“It is there!” laughed the brawny fellow, doubtless a smith.

Gorm had now unbound the slender, blond girl from the prow. He put her at the head of the coffle. Aelgifu, in her black velvet, it creased and stained, discolored, the fabric stiff and separated here and there, brought up the rear.Gorm did not refetter the slender, blond girl, though he tie her by the neck in the coffle. Further, he removed the fetterl from the other girls, too, including Aelgifu. All remained however, coffled.

The gangplank was then thrust over the rail of the ser pent and struck on the heavy, adzed boards of the dock.

The slender, blond girl, the hand of Ivar Forkbeard or her arm, was thrust to the head of the gangplank. She looked down at the cheering men.

Gorm then stood beside Ivar Forkbeard. He carried, on a strap over his shoulder, a tall, dark vessel, filled with liquid. The men on the shore laughed. Attached to the vessel, by a light chain, was a golden cup. It had two handles. From a spout on the vessel, grinning, Gorm filled the golden cup. The liquid swirling in the cup was black.

Drink,” said Ivar Forkbeard, thrusting the cup into the hands of the slender, blond girl, she who had, so long ago, in the temple of Kassau, worn the snood of scarlet yarn, with twisted golden wire, the red vest and skirt, the white blouse.

She held the cup. It was decorated; about its sides, cunningly wrought, was a design, bond-maids, chained. A chain design also decorated the rim, and, at five places on the cup, was the image of a slave whip, five-strapped. She looked at the black liquid.

“Drink,” said the Forkbeard.

She lifted it to her lips, and tasted it. She closed her eyes, and twisted her face.

“It is too bitter,” she wept.

She felt the knife of the Forkbeard at her belly. “Drink,” said he.

She threw back her head and drank down the foul brew. She began to cough and weep. The coffle rope was untied from her throat. “Send her to the branding log,” said the Forkbeard. He thrust the girl down the gangplank, into the arms of the waiting men, who hurried her from the dock.One by one, the prizes of Ivar Forkbeard, even the rich, proud Aelgifu, were forced to down the slave wine. Then they were, one by one, freed from the coffle, and hurried to the branding log.

Ivar Forkbeard then, followed by Gorm, and myself, and his men, descended the gangplank. He was much greeted. Many clasped him, and struck him on the back. And he, too, clasped many of them to himself, and shook the heads of many in his great hands.

“Was the luck good?” asked one man, with a spiral silver ring on his arm.

“Fair,” admitted the Forkbeard.

“Who is this?” asked another man, indicating me. “I see his hair has not been cropped, and he does not wear the chains of a thrall.”

“This is Tarl Red Hair,” said the Forkbeard.

“Whose man is he?” asked the man.

“My own,” I said.

“Have you no Jarl?” asked the man.

“I am my own Jarl,” I said.

“Can you play with the ax?” he asked.

“Teach me the ax,” I said to him.

“Your sword is too tiny,” said he. “Is it used for peeling suls?”

“It moves swiftly,” I said. “It bites like the serpent.”

He reached out his hand to me and then, suddenly, gripped me about the waist. Clearly it was his intention, as a joke, to hurl me into the water. He did not move me. He grunted in surprise. I took him, too, about the waist. We swayed on the adzed boards. The men moved back, to give us room.

“Ottar enjoys sport,” said Ivar Forkbeard.

With a sudden wrench I threw him from his feet and hurled him from the dock into the water.

He crawled, drenched and sputtering; back to the dock. Tomorrow,” he laughed, “I will teach you the ax.” We clasped hands. Ottar, in the absence of Ivar Forkbeard, kept hls cattle, his properties, his farm and accounts.

“He plays excellent Kaissa,” said the Forkbeard.

“I shall beat him,” said Ottar.

“We shall see,” I said.

A bond-maid thrust through the crowd. “Does my Jarl not remember Gunnhild?” she asked. She whimpered, and slipped to his side, holding him, lifting her lips to kiss him on the throat, beneath the beard. About her neck, riveted, was a collar of black iron, with a welded ring, to which a chain might be attached. “What of Pouting Lips?” said another girl, kneeling before him, lifting her eyes to his. Sometimes bond-maids are given descriptive names. The girl had full, sensuous lips, she was blond; she also smelled of verr; it had doubtless been she whom I had seen on the slope herding verr. “Pouting Lips has been in agony awaiting the return of her Jarl,” she whimpered. The Forkbeard shook her head with his great hand. “What of Olga?” whined another wench, sweet and strapping, black-haired; “Do not forget Pretty Ankles, myJarl,” said anotherwench, a delicious little thing, perhaps not more than sixteen. She thrust her lips greedily to the back of his left hand, biting at the hair there.

“Away you wenches!” laughed Ottar. “The Forkbeard has new prizes, fresher meat to chew!”

Gunnhild, angrily, with two hands, jerked her kirtle to her waist, and stood straight, proudly before the Forkbeard, her breasts, which were marvelous, thrust forward. How magnificent she seemed, the heavy black iron at her throat riveted. “None of them can please you,” she said, “as well as Gunnhild!”

He seized her in his arms and raped her lips with a kiss, his hand at her body, then threw her from him to the boards of the dock.

“Prepare a feastl” he said. “Let a feast be prepared!”

“Yes, my Jarl!” she cried, and leaped to her feet, running toward the palisade. “Yes, my Jarl!” cried the other girls, hurrying behind her, to begin the preparations for the feast.

Then the Forkbeard turned his attention to the serpent, and the disembarkment of its riches, which, on the shoulders of his men, and others, were carried, amid shouts of joy and wonder from those gathered about, to the palisade.

When this was done, I accompanied the Forkbeard to a place behind, and to one side, of a forge shed. There was a great log there, from a fallen tree. The bark had been removed from the log. It was something in the neighborhood of a yard in thickness. Against the log, kneeling, one behind the other, their right shoulders in contact with it, knelt the new bond-maids, and Aelgifu. Some men stood about, as well, and the brawny fellow, the smith. Nearby, on a large, flat stone, to keep it from sinking into the ground, was the anvil. A few feet away, glowing with heat, stood two canister braziers. In these, among the white coats, were irons. Air, by means of a small bellows, pumped by a thrall boy, in white wool, collared, haircropped, was forced through a tube in the bottom of each. The air above the canisters shook with heat.

To one side, tall, broad-shouldered, stood a young male thrall, in the thrall tunic of white wool, his hair cropped short, an iron collar on his throat.

“She first,” said the Forkbeard, indicating the slender, blond girl.

She, moaning, was seized by a fellow and thrown on her belly over the peeled log. Two men held her upper arms; two others her upper legs. A fifth man, with a heavy, leather glove, drew forth one of the irons from the fire; the air ab~ut its tip shuddered with heat.