LITMIR.BIZ

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playing upon his old tune.

      "I have no thought of Klaneth now," rumbled the Viking. "First comes Kenton's woman. After that—we take up the black priest."

      "I am ashamed," said Zubran. "I should have remembered. Yet in truth, I would feel easier if we could kill Klaneth on our way to her. For I agree with Gigi—while he lives, no safety for your blood-brother or any of us, However—Sharane first, of course."

      The Viking had been peering down into the compass. He looked again, intently, and drew back, pointing to it.

      Both the blue serpents in the scarlet bath were parallel, their heads turned to one point.

      "We head straight to Emakhtila," said Sigurd. "But are we within the jaws of that fjord or out of them? Wherever we are we must be close."

      He swung the rudder to port. The ship veered. The large needle slipped a quarter of the space to the right between the red symbols on the bowl edge. The smaller held steady.

      "That proves nothing," grunted the Viking, "except that we are no longer driving straight to the city. But we may be close upon the mounts. Check the oarsmen."

      Slower went the ship, and slower, feeling her way through the mists. And suddenly they darkened before them. Something grew out of them slowly, slowly. It lay revealed as a low shore, rising sharply and melting into deeper shadows behind. The waves ran gently to it, caressing its rocks. Sigurd swore a great oath of thankfulness.

      "We are on the other side of the mounts," he said. "Somewhere close is that secret bay of which I told you. Bid the overseer drive the ship along as we are."

      He swung the rudder sharply to starboard. The ship turned; slowly followed the shore. Soon in front of them loomed a high ridge of rock. This they skirted, circled its end and still sculling silently came at last to another narrow strait into which the Viking steered.

      "A place for hiding," he said. "Send the ship into that cluster of trees ahead. Nay—there is water there, the trees rise out of it. Once within them the ship can be seen neither from shore nor sea."

      They drifted into the grove. Long, densely-leaved branches covered them.

      "Now lash her to the tree trunks," whispered Sigurd. "Go softly. Priests may be about. We will look for them later, when we are on our way. We leave the ship in charge of the women. The black-skin stays behind. Let them all lie close till we return——"

      "There would be better chance for you to return if you cut off that long hair of yours and your beard, Sigurd," said the Persian, and added: "Better chance for us, also."

      "What!" cried the Viking, outraged. "Cut my hair! Why, even when I was slave they left that untouched!"

      "Wise counsel!" said Kenton. "And Zubran—that naming beard of yours and your red hair. Better for you and us, too, if you shaved them both —or changed their color."

      "By Ormuzd, no!" exclaimed the Persian, as outraged as Sigurd.

      "The fowler sets the net and is caught with the bird!" laughed the Viking. "Nevertheless, it is good counsel. Better hair off face and head than head off shoulders!"

      The maids brought shears. Laughing, they snipped Sigurd's mane to nape of neck, trimmed the long beard into short spade shape. Amazing was the transformation of Sigurd, Trygg's son, brought about by that shearing.

      "There is one that Klaneth will not know if he sees him," grunted Gigi.

      Now the Persian put himself in the women's hands.

      They dabbled at beard and head with cloths dipped in a bowl of some black liquid. The red faded, then darkened into brown. Not so great was the difference between him and the old Zubran as there was between the new and old Sigurd. But Kenton and Gigi nodded approvingly—at least the red that made him as conspicuous as the Norseman's long hair was gone.

      Remained Kenton and Gigi. Little could be done for either of them. There was no changing Gigi's frog slit of a mouth, the twinkling beady eyes, the bald pate, the immense shoulders.

      "Take out your earrings, Gigi," bade Kenton.

      "Take off that bracelet on your arm," replied Gigi,

      "Sharane's gift! Never!" exclaimed Kenton, as outraged as had been both the Norseman and the Persian.

      "My earrings were put there by one who loved me as much as she does you." For the first time since Kenton had known Gigi there was anger in his voice.

      The Persian laughed softly. It broke the tension. Kenton grinned at the drummer, somewhat guiltily. Gigi grinned back.

      "Well," he said. "It seems that we must all make our sacrifices—" he began to unscrew the earrings.

      "No, Gigi!" Kenton could not bring himself to break that golden band upon which Sharane had graven the symbols of her love. "Leave them be. Rings and bracelet—both can be hidden."

      "I do not know—" Gigi paused doubtfully. "It seems to me to be better. That idea of sacrifice—it grows stronger."

      "There is little sense in what you say," said Kenton stubbornly.

      "No?" mused Gigi. "Yet many men must have seen that bracelet of yours that time you fought the black priest's men and lost Sharane. Klaneth must have seen it. Something whispers to me that token is more perilous than the rings in my ears."

      "Well, nothing whispers to me," said Kenton, shortly, He led the way into what had been Klaneth's cabin and began stripping to clothe himself in the sailors' gear they had taken from the captured galley. He slipped on a loose shirt of finely tanned, thin leather whose loose sleeves fastened around his wrists.

      "You see," he said to Gigi, "the bracelet is hidden."

      Next came loose hose of the same material drawn tight by a girdle around the waist. He drew on high, laced buskins. Over the shirt he fastened a sleeveless tunic of mail. On his head he placed a conical metal covered cap from whose padded sides dropped, shoulder deep, folds of heavy oiled silk.

      The others dressed with him in similar garments. Only the Persian would not leave off his own linked mail. He knew its strength, he said, and the others were new to him It was an old friend, often tried and always faithful he said he would not cast it off for new ones whose loyalty was still untried. But over it he drew one of the shirts and a tunic. And Gigi, after he had set the cap upon his head, drew close the folds of silk so that they hid his ears and their pendants. Also he fastened around his neck another long fold of silk, binding the others fast and hiding his mouth.

      And when they had covered themselves with the long cloaks they scanned each other with lightened hearts. The Viking and the Persian were true changelings. Little fear of recognition there. Changed enough by his new garb, it seemed to them, was Kenton. The cloak hid Gigi's stumpy legs and the cloths around his face, the close fitting, conical cap altered it curiously into one not easily recognizable.

      "It is good!" murmured the Viking.

      "It is very good!" echoed Kenton.

      They belted themselves and thrust into the belts both their own swords and short ones of Sigurd's forging. Only Gigi would take neither that nine foot blade the Norseman had made for him nor the great mace. The latter was too well known; the other too cumbersome for their journey; impossible, like the mace, to hide. He took two swords of average length. Last he picked up a long, thin piece of rope, swiftly spliced to it a small grappling hook. He coiled the rope around his waist, hanging the grapple to his belt.

      "Lead, Sigurd," said Kenton.

      One by one they dropped over the ship's bow, waded through shallow water and stood upon the shore while Sigurd cast about for his bearings. The mists had grown thicker. The golden leaves, the panicles of crimson and yellow blooms were etched against them as though upon some ancient Chinese screen. In the mists Sigurd moved, shadowy.

      "Come," the Viking joined them. "I have found the way."

      Silently they followed

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