that had melted the ice of Eric’s displeasure seemed to have set free torrents of generosity and good-will.  His ruddy face beamed above the board like a harvest moon; if Leif would have accepted it, he would have presented him with the entire contents of Brattahlid.  Following their chief’s example, his retainers locked arms with their former enemies and swore them eternal brotherhood.  Night after night they drank out of the same horns, and strengthened their bonds in lauding their chiefs.  Never had the great hall seen a time of such radiant good cheer.

By the last week of Leif’s preparations, interest and enthusiasm had spread into every corner of inhabited Greenland.  Strings of people began to make pilgrimages to stare at the exploring vessel that had once been within sight of the “wonder-shores” and now seemed destined actually to touch them.  Men came from ail parts of the country in the hope of joining her crew, and were furious with disappointment when told that her equipment was limited to thirty-five, and that that number had already been made up from among Leif’s own followers.  Warriors thronged to visit the Lucky One, until the hall benches were filled, and the courtyard was so crowded with attendants that there was barely room for the servants to run between the horses with the ale horns.  Outside the fence there was nearly always a mob of children and paupers and thralls lying in wait, like a wolf-pack, to tear information out of any member of the household who should venture beyond the gates.

Usually it was only vague rumor and meagre report that fell to the share of these outsiders; but the day before Leif’s departure it happened that they got a bit of excitement first-hand.

Late that afternoon word went around that the trading-ship of Arnor Gunnarsson was coming up Eric’s Fiord.  The arrival of that merchant was one of the events of the year.  Not only did it occasion great feasting among the rich, which meant additional alms among the poor, but besides a chance to feast one’s stomach, it meant an opportunity to feast one’s eyes on beautiful garments and wonderful weapons; and in addition to all else, it meant such a budget of news and gossip and thrilling yarns as should supply local conversation with a year’s stock of topics,—­a stock always run low and rather shopworn towards the end of the long winters.  At the first hint of the “Eastman’s” approach, a crowd of idlers was gathered out of nowhere as quickly as buzzards are drawn out of empty space.

As the heavy dun-colored merchantman came slowly to its berth and the anchor fell with a rattle and a splash, the motley crowd cheered shrilly.  When the ruddy gold-bearded trader appeared at the side, ready to clamber into the boat his men were lowering, they cheered again.  And they regarded it as an appropriate tribute to the importance of the occasion when one of their number came running over the sand to announce breathlessly that Leif Ericsson himself was riding down to greet the arrivals, accompanied by no less a person than his high-born foster-son.