“Not the pestilence, comrade,” I said; “but what lies in yonder penthouse.”

“What should be there?” he asked, wondering, for my voice was unsteady.

“We have boarded the funeral ship of some chief,” I said.  “He lies shut in that chamber with his treasures round him.”

“To be burned in his ship at sea,” said Bertric quietly.  “Well, a Viking might find a less fitting funeral.  Truly, it seems as if you may be right, and we must needs see if so it is.”

Now Dalfin had listened, crossing himself once or twice, and he nodded.

“I like it not at all,” he said; “but we must see what is yonder, and if Malcolm is right.”

It was strange to me that these two showed no fear of him who doubtless lay there, in the chamber which his men had made for him.  We hold that the one who dares open the grave chamber is the hardiest of men, running most fearsome risk from the wrath of the dead hero.  For, if aught will bring back the life to a warrior who has died, it will be that one should set hands on his war gear.  And we hold that the ghost of a man hides near his body for many days, and therefore see that at hand is set the food that may be needful if the ghost hungers and will come back for a space to eat.  Else he may wander forth, troll-like and terrible, to seek what he needs.

I think that it is no wonder if I feared, having been taught all this.  But my comrades were Christians, and on them was no fear of the quiet dead; but only an awe, and reverence.  But of that I knew naught.

“Why must we open the house?” I said.  “It is as if we courted the wrath of the chief.  I have been told of men who would try to win the treasure from a mound where one was buried, and died with fear of what he met with there.”

“Such an one deserved it,” said Bertric quietly; “but we seek no treasure, nor would rob the dead.  No doubt the wrath of Heaven lies hard on one who does so.  Yet all this time we do not know if we are right or not.”

“Let it be,” said I.

“I do not think that we should,” Dalfin said.  “For if you are right—­and you are a Norseman, and know—­while it seems about the only possible reading of what has puzzled us—­then we must needs sail to the Norway shore that the men of the chief may know what has happened, and either lay him in mound, or see this better carried out.”

“Aye,” said Bertric, “Dalfin is right.  By chance we have been set in charge of this ship—­maybe not at all by chance—­that we may see honour done at last.  Maybe we cannot make for Norway when the wind comes.  If not, we must plan otherwise.  Come, I cannot rest till I know.”

But I held him back, making no secret of my fears.

“We shall have to reckon with the wrath of the hero,” I said.  “It will be terrible—­and we know not what may happen.”

At that Dalfin stared at me; but Bertric, who had seen other lands and knew the ways of men, smiled and set his hand on my arm.