But I had no time to wonder how and why that sign was there, for now we were seen, and torches began to flicker along the wharf.  Our pilots spoke to Asbiorn, and he passed the word for men to go forward with the shore warps, and the oar strokes slowed down.  I thought I saw the broad gleam of light as the doors of the hall opened and closed again, and then a hail or two went back and forth from the shore and us.  The oars were laid in and we were alongside the wharf, and quietly the rowers took their arms and sat in their places, waiting, as they had been bidden.  There were not more than a score of men waiting us ashore, for it was supper time.

Then came a man from out of the town toward us, and by the time we were moored he was on the wharf opposite the stern.  He had on helm and sword, but no mail, and his shield hung over his shoulder.  The men made way for him, and in the torchlight I saw that he was gray-bearded and strong.

“It is Gorm the Steward,” said Gerda to me, “He is my friend.  Let me speak to him.”

“Ho, shipmaster!” cried Gorm.  “Welcome, if you come in friendship, as I suppose.  Whence are you, and what would you?”

“Friends,” said Asbiorn; “friends with a cargo some of you will be glad to see.”

“Aye, aye,” answered the steward.  “You traders always say that.  Well, that will wait for daylight.  Meanwhile come up to the hall and sup.”

Then his eyes lit on the silent, mail-clad men at the oar benches, and he started.

“Ho!” he cried sternly, “what is the meaning of all this show of weapons?”

“Speak to him, Gerda,” I said then, seeing that it was time.

She went to the rail and leaned over it.  The red flares shone on her mail and white dress and sparkling helm.

“Gorm,” she cried softly; “Gorm, old friend—­I have come home!”

He stood for a moment as if turned to stone there on the wharf.  Then he shaded his eyes with his hand as if in broad daylight, and stared at Gerda for but a moment, for she spoke his name once more.

“Odin,” he cried, “this is a good day—­if my ears and eyes do not play me false—­yet it is hardly to be believed.  Let me come on board.”

He hurried to the gangway, and there Gerda met him.  One close look was enough for him, and he bent his knee and kissed her hand with words of welcome, and so would be made known to Bertric and myself.  He looked us up and down with a sharp glance and smiled, and Gerda told her tale in a few words.

“True enough,” he said; “for you wear the arms of the house, and wear them well.  I never thought to see one in the war gear of the young master again and not to resent it—­but Gerda will have made no mistake.  Now, what will you do?  Arnkel sits in the hall, and with him men who have come from Eric Bloodaxe the King.”

“Hakon, Athelstane’s foster son, is king,” said Bertric.  “There is news for you.  He is at Thrandheim, and the north has risen for him.  We are his men.”