brushwood, so that it was almost covered.  Either from haste, or else loosened by the movement of the ship, one or two of these fagots had not found a place with the rest, but lay on the deck by the boats.  As if to keep the pile steady, on either side had been set a handsomely carved sledge, and on the pile at the end was a light wagon, also carved, and with bright bronze fittings.  The wheels had been taken off and set inside it.  Under the piles showed a barrel or two, which it was plain were tar barrels.

“Firewood for a long sea passage,” I said.  “And sledges and wagon for a land journey at its end.  One would say that the ship was flitting a whole family to Iceland—­the new land to which men go today.”

“Aye, I have heard of that land, and of families who go there,” said Bertric.  “That seems to explain some things, but not why the ship is adrift.”

“What will be in the house yonder?” asked Dalfin.

“Maybe it was built for the women of the family,” I said.

Now, this was so likely that for the moment the wonder passed.  We had to tend ship while the breeze held off if we would do anything with her presently.  She was not of the largest build, but both Bertric and I knew that it would be all that we three could do, one of us being a landsman moreover, to handle her if it came on to blow at all freshly.

Now, I would not have it thought that we three castaways were much in the mind to puzzle over the ship which we had gained, almost against hope.  It was enough for us to rejoice in the feel of firm planks under our feet once more, and to find naught terrible, but promise of all we needed, while the strain of the longboat voyage with its ever-present peril was over.  Dalfin broke that first short silence.

“I am desperately hungry,” he said.  “Surely there will be food on board?”

The breeze freshened up again, and the sail flattened against the mast with a clap, and the ship quivered.  It was naught to us, but it made the landsman start and look upward as if expecting to see somewhat carried away, while I laughed at him.

“Work first and food afterward,” said Bertric.  “We must tend ship while wind is little, if at all.  Why, we are not more than half starved yet, for barley bread stands by one nobly.”

“Give me somewhat to do, and maybe I shall forget the hunger,” Dalfin answered ruefully.  “Which of you two is to be captain?”

“Bertric,” I said at once.  “That is his place by all right.”

“It is an old trade of mine,” the Saxon said quietly “Well, it is to be seen if I can justify my sayings of myself.”

The sun had set by the time we boarded the ship, but we had not noticed it in the bright twilight.  The short northern night would be no darker than now until the sunrising, for we were close on midsummer, and there was every sign of settled fair weather after the gale.  Even now the last breeze was dying away, leaving the sea bright and unruffled under the glow in the northwest sky.  It was only to be hoped that presently some summer breeze might suffer us to lay our course southward or eastward, toward the land where we might find haven and help.