“There are men who would pray for a wreck like this every week,” said Bertric, with a short laugh.  “But it will be all that we can do to get these good men to keep what they have saved, even if the things are of any use to them.  They need little and covet naught.”

Presently he heaved a great sigh, and half turned from the sea, as if impatient.

“As good a little ship as ever was framed,” he said.  “And to come to such an end.  Mishandled on a lee shore.”

“Why, there is no blame to us,” I said.  “We were helpless.”

“It lies heavy on my mind that we ought to have weathered the point yonder; I held on too long.  At best I knew where she was strained, and should have gone on the other tack first.  And the canvas we got on her!  We might have done better than that.”

“It did not seem so at the time,” I answered, laughing.  “It is easy to think now of what might have been done.”

“So it is.  But for all my days I shall feel it in my bones that I threw the ship away.  I shall dream that I am weathering the island.  Two ships I have lost running.”

“One by war and the other by sheer misfortune,” I answered.  “You make too much of it altogether.”

He laughed ruefully.  “Well, think what a voyage we might have had if we had chanced to pick up a crew.”

“It was your own doing that Heidrek did not pick us up,” I said.  “Maybe that thought will comfort you somewhat.”

“I was never glad of a fog before,” he answered.

And there that matter ended, for now we had wandered to a place whence we could see the strait between us and the mainland, which we must cross presently.

That was not yet possible, for here the currents, as the tide rose and swirled round either end of the island, were like a mill race, while the heavy sea which still beat on the shore made the turmoil still wilder as it set across the narrow opening.

“Here we have to bide till that mends,” said Bertric.  “We must make the best of it, for a day or two.  Maybe it matters little, for Gerda needs rest.  And Dalfin will sleep till midday if we let him.  He is worn out.”

“He was full of all that would happen when we came as honoured guests to his father’s place, as we talked last evening,” I said.  “That all sounds well enough for a time.  But thereafter—­what are our plans to be?”

“In what way?” he answered, staying his steps, and looking gravely at me.

Now this was the first chance we two had had of private talk.  As may be supposed, we had been drawn together much during the voyage, partly as seamen, and also partly because Norseman and Saxon are kin, while the Irishman was almost as much a stranger to me as to Bertric.  Moreover, Dalfin was at home once more, and we were wanderers.  So I spoke plainly, not seeing any need to beat about the bush with this quiet friend, of whom I surely learnt so much in the long days of peril together.