So carried away was Estein by the seer’s earnestness, and so suddenly did his last words strike home, that the thought never occurred to him that this might only be the gossip of his followers come in time to Atli’s ears.  It seemed to him an inspired insight into his past, and he started suddenly, and then said slowly,—­

“The shaft indeed flew true.”

“For thy brother’s sake I owe thee something,” the old man went on; “I might give weighty reason, but I may not.  For thine own I wish to heal thee, and if I cannot cure this spell there is no man who can.

“Wilt thou trust me with the story?” he added, a little dubiously.

“Ask not that of me,” replied Estein.  “Tell me what to do, and I promise I shall follow the rede.”

As if afraid that to ask further questions might weaken the force of his words, Atli fell at once into his mystic manner again.

“For long I wrestled with the visions.  The faces of the wizard and the witch” (Estein’s look darkened for an instant), “I could not see, but at last, in the still night-time, there spoke a voice to me, and I knew it came from the gods.  For three nights it spoke.  On the fourth I sat out, and called to me from far beyond the mountains and the lakes, even from beyond the grave, thy brother Olaf.  He too spoke to me, and every time the purport of the message was the same.”

“What said the voice?”

“A ship must cross the seas again.”

The old man repeated the last words low and slowly, and then, for a little, silence fell upon the pair.  Vague and meagre though the message was, it accorded exactly with Estein’s long-suppressed desires.  So entirely did Atli believe in himself and the virtue of his counsel, that the young Viking was thoroughly infected with his faith; and then, too, it was that early and suggestive hour when a man is quickly stirred.

Estein was the first to speak.

“I accept the counsel, Atli,” he cried, springing to his feet.  “With the melting of the snow I shall take to the sea again, and steer for the setting of the sun.”

The old seer laid his hand affectionately upon his shoulder.

“There spoke the brother of Olaf,” he said.  “And now to sleep.  In the morning I shall send Jomar to warn Ketill, so trouble not thyself further.”

“If I but knew Helgi’s fate,” Estein began.

“Doubt not my words,” said Atli.  “His fate is too closely linked with thine.”

He showed the Viking to a pallet bed in the loft, where, worn out with fatigue and anxiety, he quickly fell asleep.

It was nearly noon when he awoke, and the sun was streaming through the attic window.  He found Atli in the room below.

“I have turned sluggard, it seems,” he said.

“Young heads need sleep,” replied the old man.  “There was no need to rise before, or I should have roused thee.  Jomar has been gone since daybreak, and till he returns thou canst do naught.”