men had already followed him, a cry of victory rose from the Orkney Vikings, and for a moment the fate of the battle seemed decided, when a huge stone hurtled through the air, and falling on Liot’s shield forced it down on his helmet and him to his knees.  It was the work of Ulf, captain of the forecastle; and roaring like a bull, the old Viking followed his stone.  Estein sprang from the poop and clove one man to the shoulders.  Another fell to Ulf’s sword.  The half-stunned Liot was seized by one of his followers, and bundled back on board his ship; and for the time the day was saved.

“After them! after them, Ulf!” shouted Estein, and twenty bold Norwegians followed their leader in the wake of Liot’s retreating boarding party.  Their foes gave way right and left, the gangways round the sides were cleared, and, despite the threats of Liot, his men began to spring from forecastle and quarter-deck into the ships behind.

“Forward, king’s men! forward, men of Estein!” roared Ulf.

“Wait for me, Liot!” cried Estein, charging the poop with his red shield before him.”  A bairn is after thee!”

Helgi, who had kept at his shoulder throughout, seized his arm.

“They are giving way on Thorkel’s ship.  Osmund is on board.  If we return not, the ship is cleared.”

With a gesture of despair Estein turned.

“Back, men, back!  Thorkel needs all his friends, I fear,” he cried; and to Helgi he said, “The day is lost.  We can but sell our lives dearly now.”

They came back too late.  Already Thorkel’s men were pouring on board Estein’s ship, with Osmund of the Hooknose at their heels.  Thorkel himself lay stark across the bulwarks, his face to his foes, and a great spear-head standing out of his back.

It was now but a question of time.  With a single ship, surrounded on all sides, and weary with storm and battle, there could be only one fate for Estein’s diminished band.  Nevertheless, they stood their ground as stoutly and cheerfully as if the fray were just beginning.  Finding that all efforts to board were useless, the Orkney Vikings confined themselves for some time to keeping up an incessant fire of darts and stones.  One by one the defenders dropped at their posts, and at last, when widening gaps appeared in the line of shields, Liot and Osmund boarded together, each from his own side.

“Back to the poop, Helgi!” Estein cried.  “To the poop, men! we cannot hold the gangways.  One tired man cannot fight with five fresh.”

Last of all his men, he stepped from the gangway that ran round the low and open waist of the ship, up to the decked poop, his red shield stuck with darts like a pincushion with pins.

In the forecastle, old Ulf still held his own, backed by some half-dozen stout survivors out of all those who had gone into battle with him in the morning.

“My hour is come at last, Thorolf,” he said to the upland giant, who seemed to be disengaging something from his coat of ring-mail.  “I shall have tales of a merry fight to tell to Odin tonight.  But before I fall I shall slay me one of those two Vikings.  Wilt thou follow me, Thorolf, to the gangways, and then to Valhalla?”