And good was their reason, for, as they knew, "He has eleven men's wit and twelve men's strength," and of all foes to meet, none was so terrible, none so full of craft. Men tell of two hunters who saw one by a pool and stole up behind a rock. When they peered over there was no bear there, nothing but a brown leaf drifting across the pool. Then, as they looked, the leaf disappeared behind the bank, and without a sound the head of that bear slipped out of the water right there, and rose inch by inch to get a good look at the watchers. Then back it slipped again, down, down, till only the tip of the nose was left, and once more there was nothing to be seen but what seemed a brown leaf drifting across the water.

Well the great beast on the floe knew what was to be found in good time beneath that snow crust, and his long-haired paws had made no sound when he first had crept like a shadow to the spot. Now at last the time had come. The first faint tinkle of water lapping in the hole had caught his watchful ear. Yet still he waited; waited while the breathing grew plainer as the snow grew thin; raised himself ever so slowly and rustleless, and until the first little whiff of steam burst through; then—then—down on each side plunged the resistless sets of curved daggers! down between plunged the wolf-trap mouth, and with an ease that would make one forget how heavy a seal is, this one was flirted out of his hole and sent rolling yards away, only to be pounced on a second later, with an exultant roar that echoed from berg to berg until a great fragment split off from one and crashed into splinters at its base. Then the echoes were fine indeed as they rumbled along the glittering plain.

The bear enjoyed his dinner. He had waited long for it and so perhaps deserved it. But it was not wise of him to pay it quite such close attention, and for the moment fail to keep ears or eyes alert to other things. Even as it was, however, a sound caught his attention—an odd, hissing, whistling noise,—and he raised his long, snaky neck and head, now dyed a brilliant red, and dripping frightfully. Yes, he was not mistaken. Something was coming, and he stirred uneasily. Not that he was afraid,—of what living creature in those days was a Rider of the Berg ever afraid?—but he might have to fight for his dinner. Perhaps he remembered meeting such a creature once before and the fight that came of it. It was a good dinner that followed, but it was many days before certain wounds of his own had healed; at all events, it was well to be ready.

On came the figure as swiftly as a bird, glittering in the light like an icicle. The bear began half not to like it, and expressed his displeasure at such uncanny work by uttering a curse deep in his shaggy throat, a curse that came snarling through ivory fangs already tinged with red; but never a second paused that flying form. Long leads of ice around were glassy, and down the nearest lane among the rougher patches, hist!—swist! flashed the darting feet. And as the skater passed in full flight, followed by the ever-turning, wrathful, watchful, shaggy head, up went the short sea-bow, backed with whalebone. Tsang! and swift as light an arrow, drawn to the head, had crossed the space and buried its length nearly to the feather in the mass of yellow hair.

Like an uncoiled spring round snapped the roaring head, and bit savagely at the spot where the arrow had already bitten deeper, and then with wonderful speed the furious beast stretched himself in keen pursuit. If that smooth road should come to an end!—but the skater had vanished behind a berg. Hist!—swist! Here he comes again, from round the other side, and down another lane. Another arrow glances in the sun, and again for a second a stinging wound receives a needless bite. Time lost! and time, O Bear, is of value, did you but know it. Twice already has that fierce sting bitten deeply into your joints, and both hind feet move now strangely slow, feet which used to carry you swiftly as any deer. Beware the third!

Silently came again the mail-clad skater—voiceless, save for the whistling of his flight,—and undaunted still the enraged monster rushed to meet him, only to meet, baffled, yet another shaft in the tenderest spot in his shoulder, that gave to the severed sinew and let him drop on it so heavily that it completed the mischief done. And now for the first time in his life the polar bear felt fear. His keen wit told him that in such war he was mastered. He ceased to rush madly onward. He settled slowly on his torn haunches, and swayed this way and that on his one sound foreleg, till that too gave way and he sank in a shapeless heap.

Back came Ulf, swirling, wildly exultant, casting away bow and quiver. A slash of his knife freed his feet, and with a bound he sprang on the rough ice, axe in belt, spear in hand, on his feet small irons that would keep them from slipping. In a dozen strides he was ready for the thrust and made it. Then Ulf's brave heart stood still for one dread throb. Like the ward of a boxer up came the great white forearm, and the spear only glanced along the hair. Like the stroke of a serpent the long neck shot upward, the furious jaws crunched into the shaft, and with a sharp side-shake, snap! snap! in three pieces flew the splintered wood. Now for the throat!

It was all so awfully sudden! No time to think, to plan, to evade! Just time to snatch from belt his keen little axe, to fling out the weaponless left hand and catch with it from below that murderous lower jaw, then, with all his own wildcat quickness and last ounce of strength, to strike!

It was a wonderful blow, men said afterward—so fairly in line between the eyes that no scale could detect a waver, yet far enough back to go crashing down helve-deep through the brain till it touched somewhere the spinal cord, the one great nerve of life that carries the brain's messages to the limbs, and without which they are dead. And Ulf, still staring into the glowing coals that gleamed in the eyesockets of his enemy, felt, rather than saw, the light flicker out like candles as the red-stained head dropped to his blow with a sinking of the whole frame about which there could be no mistake. Axe fell with head, and the handle clattered on the ice.

Yes, it was a wonderful blow; and when Ulf looked at the black, hurrying knot of his slowfooted men and down at the result, and knew in his soul what other results would follow, the blood came surging back from his heart in a mighty tide of joy. Now he was a man! Now he was a Northman of the Northmen! Now he would have a name of his own! And over the wild waste of ice rang out the war-cry of the Northman, of the Viking, the one who made and unmade kings,

"AOI!"



SPARK VIII.

HOW THE IRON STAR VISITED A GREAT KING.

So Ulf came home again to his reward with more renown than often falls to a young man; and when Jarl Sigurd grew too old to care to govern longer, the command slid over to the sturdy young shoulders so well fitted to receive it. And long before this Ulf had married Edith Fairhair, greatly to the regret of all the other young men along the coast.

But of all his treasures won in war or trading, nothing gave him greater honour than his white bearskin; for the fame of his winning travelled far, and was sung in winter nights by harpers round the roaring fire which peopled the far corners with ghosts and leaping shadows, which might well be the wraiths of bears and wolves still haunting the land where once they lived, and roared, and howled,—or so thought the younger people. If the truth be told, so thought not a few of the older ones too, for those were days when men believed in magic, and in the power of dwarfs, elves and gnomes who were supposed to work in caves deep in the mountain sides, making magic arms, and other witchcraft things.

About this time, the great outside world began to move on a little faster. More was happening, day by day, worth remembering, and thus called History. Wars were afoot in half a dozen countries, and at last like a light flame war came flickering around the fjords, touching now here, now there. Even Sigurd's distant vik was beset, and Thorold the Strong, now as mighty a man as Thorolf his father, struck such strokes among the invaders that many supposed he was the leader, and told tales of the giant that made the pirates rather shy of coming back again.

Yet always in each tale, there was some word of another leader, and always word of a lost ship, sometimes of more than one; so when they talked it over it began to dawn on many that the stories told so fully were told by men who escaped from Thorold; but the tale was so scanty about the slighter leader in the glittering mail because men whom he met never came back to boast of it. When once he shot over the side of a long-ship at the head of his men, that was ever but the beginning of the end. Not many minutes later, war would cease on that particular craft, no one being left to defend it. This did not make the wise- heads anxious to try it for themselves. But for a while, hot-headed young men who wanted to win great fame in a voyage, without waiting for it to come in many voyages, as most must do, thought that a viking trip to Sigurd's Vik was the speediest way of getting it.

Now and then some young madcap would do more than think about it, and with cheers would sail away for Sigurd's Vik; but it is not recorded that many men thus won the fame they went for. So at last every one very sensibly decided that the Vik was an excellent place for fighting, but a still better place to leave alone, and then war died out, and slowly trade began again.

With the trade came news, as usual. Across the seas at no great distance lay Denmark. Further off yet was Britain, where the tin came from, and some gold. Now word came that in Denmark a mighty king had arisen, who had conquered all England, in Britain, and was now ruling both lands. Great was the wonder throughout all the Northland, for fierce were the fighters who dwelt in Britain, and such a deed had never been done before. This was better than fighting off pirates in the mouth of a vik, thought Ulf. Moreover, the pirates had ceased to come.

So Ulf welcomed the traders heartily, and gave them good bargains; and in return, while he listened, they told him all they knew about the king, which was not much, to be sure. That he was not a very young man was certain, for he had a son as old as Ulf. But they told one strange thing about him at which all wondered. When the King was a young man of Ulf's age, he was as fierce a warrior as ever held a shield, and toward the conquered was as relentless as a wolf. They told wild tales of his cruelty then.

This was common enough in the world, and Ulf said nothing. But they went on to tell that which to Ulf was indeed a very curious thing. When England lay at this fighter's feet, beaten, every one expected as a matter of course that all the captured leaders would be killed, and all the gold, and furs, and lands would be seized by the King for his own use. But nothing of the kind happened! Instead, he began a rule so good-hearted, so fair and just to all, whether British or Dane, and toward past enemies as well as toward friends, that his enemies were more than half inclined to be friends. The country was growing rich in cattle, and was better to live in than ever before,—indeed quite like Sigurd's Vik in that respect, a state of things natural enough where a Sigurd ruled, but not at all where a Knut did,—for Knut or Canute, as it is sometimes written, was this new king's name.

Lastly, strangest of all, this wild warrior, yet mild-ruling king, had proclaimed throughout the land that he no longer believed in Thor, nor Odin, nor the other cruel gods of the North, but declared that they did not even exist! He worshipped, they said, one God only, a merciful One, who did not love bloodshed and murder, for which reason there should be none of it throughout the kingdom. And there was very little of it indeed. Men knew so well what the King himself had done in that line, in the past, that they were in no hurry to disobey him now, lest perhaps they might find that he had forgotten nothing of his oldtime handy use of battle-axe. So there was peace from one end of the country to the other.

Now, Edith Fairhair sat in the highseat when this was told, and she became very curious about it. Ulf sat silently by, with his chin in his hand, with the firelight flashing from his mail, and listened. When the tale was told, and they were alone, they looked into each other's eyes, and both laughed softly, each reading the same thought.

"Would'st care to go, Edith?"

"Far hast thou sailed, Ulf, and much hast thou seen. Yet Vik-mouth is as far as I have travelled. I would like to see that fair land."

"There may be storms," he said, teasingly.

"I like storms."

"There may be pirates on the way." And his face grew sober.

"I am Sigurd's daughter, and the wife of Ulf," was the proud reply.

After that of course there was not much left to say; but all the same, Ulf looked more carefully into the strength of his longship that week than even he or Sigurd ever had before a voyage. Not an arrow went on board which he did not test with his own fingers, and send to the smithy if not perfect,—and who was a better judge of ironwork than he? While the men he chose for the crew were the sturdiest, toughest, craftiest set of rascals that ever sailed from a vik. Every one of them was fit to command a longship if the captain was laid low. And every man of them, because of it, knew how to obey on the instant, or if need be, to win a battle without orders. And in a safe hiding-place was a large bundle. It contained a present for the King.

Merrily flashed the sunlight on the oarblades. Edith Fairhair was brimming with questions, too excited to sit still. It was her first voyage, and Ulf the Silent talked more than he ever did before in his life, explaining things that he knew about and forgetting to answer when he didn't know. Once, on the voyage, they had a touch of war, and Ulf looked at Edith and felt a sudden thrill which he had never felt before when a fight was coming. If he lost now, he lost what a kingdom could not replace.

On came the enemy's craft with the swift confidence of many a capture. But while yet beyond bowshot it was suddenly checked and hung in the wind, even backing water a little. That stern, silent figure standing in the opposing prow seemed familiar to the wary captain. That glittering mail, the dragon-crest on the helmet, that too had he seen —somewhere. Ha! Now he remembered. Once before he had thanked his stars that his had not been the ship which the man in mail had boarded. There was no other ship to take the brunt this time, and his cheek turned a little pale.

The vessels drifted a little nearer, and the stranger hailed,

"Art thou not Ulf, of Sigurd's Vik?"

"Yea!"

A flutter swept through the stranger-craft, and a pause. Its men flashed at each other startled looks.

"Is it war?" the captain asked again, hoping his men would not note the little tremble in his voice.

"War have I seen," was the curt reply, and there was a twang as a bow was strung. Then Edith said a swift word to which Ulf listened, frowning, yet called to the undecided captain.

"Ulf, of Sigurd's Vik, has seen too much war to be afraid to offer peace to any man. Choose thou!"

The stranger laughed a laugh of relief, but said,

"Peace it shall be, since that is a new thing to both of us. I am Thorfin the Viking."

Ulf's face darkened.

"Had I known thy name before, the choice would not have been left to thee. It is peace for this time; but Thorfin the Viking will do well to sail south instead of north, for when we meet next Thorfin's ship quickly will need another captain,"—which was a very long and unamiable speech for Ulf the Silent to make. And he allowed his ship to drift until the sail of the other had dropped below the horizon, still speeding southward like a scared white rabbit, that is happy in a close shave from the snap of a wolf. Then Ulf swung his yard to the wind again, saying only,

"Truly, Edith, one sea-thief owes thee thanks to-night," and went his way.

Knut the Great sat on his throne-seat in his raftered hall. Here and there little groups of his chief men chatted and exchanged news, but Knut heard them not. The dark carving of his seat showed richly through the furs that draped it, and white gleams of walrus ivory lighted the darkness, but Knut saw them not. An official was giving an account of what had occurred of late in the village under his command, but for once Knut listened with only half an ear as he sat there with his chin in his hand, for from the shore below there came the soft wash of the ever restless sea which the King so dearly loved. The swash brought swiftly to mind the days of his youth when his life was all before him, and his kingdom was the length of his deck. Those were happy days, indeed, when the right ruling of a great land was not among his duties! For power has its own troubles, and the King would not be remembered so long had his reign not been a good as well as a great one.

The hum of voices came up from the shore, and all the well-known sounds of the harbour-life, the splash of a rope falling in the water, the thud of an oar flung down, the grating of a keel drawn up on the shingly beach. And suddenly he was conscious that it had ceased, all save the more distinctly sounding water. Surprised, he glanced quickly through the open door, and saw that all the shore-folk had stopped their work to gaze at a longship flying swiftly onward; a stranger, evidently, for a man was on the mast watching out for hidden rocks and pointing out the channel to the steersman. The long row of shields hung outboard on each side told that it was something more than a peaceful trader, and Knut watched with interest, motioning for silence.

With a rush the craft shot half her length on shore and her crew poured out in a well-trained throng, which without delay swung into column and headed for the hall. Knut the Great eyed them with admiration. Never had he seen a sturdier set of men; and something in the lithe young leader at their head, all glittering with shining mail, reminded him of his own lost youth, of which but the moment before he had been dreaming. A young woman walked by the captain's side, fair-haired, fair-faced, with a gleam of gold in her collar and bracelets of gold on her round arm. Then at a sign, the men halted, and the pair came on alone.

With his curiosity aroused, and in the free manner of the times, the King left his seat and came to the entrance to meet them. The light was better out of doors.

Neither bow nor salute did the young man make until he was at the very portal; then he saw before him a slight, gray man, rather plain of dress, who looked rather than asked his business.

"Is this the hall of Knut the Great?"

"Yea."

"I have come to have speech with him."

"And thou?" The keen eyes supplied the rest of the question.

"Ulf the Silent, of Sigurd's Vik," was the brief reply.

The questioner started slightly as though the name was not unknown to him, and glanced quickly at the men beyond, but they had not stirred. Then after a moment, he said,

"Come!" and wheeling, led the way back to the audience hall. Ulf saw his guide stride forward to an empty throne-seat into which he sank, and with his chin in his hand said, quietly,

"I am Knut the King."

For a breathing-space Ulf halted, startled. This the King! Then he recovered his wits again.

"Sigurd's Vik is well governed; but men say England and Denmark are better ruled. This have I come to see, and with me Sigurd's daughter, now my wife." The King smiled, not ill-pleased at what he heard.

"Ulf, of Sigurd's Vik, is not unknown to me by hearsay, and right glad am I to meet him, and to talk of the ways of ruling men. Yet if what I hear be true, he need not cross vik-mouth to find just ruling."

And he had seats brought for them, and food and drink, as was the custom, sending, too, for his sister to receive Edith Fairhair as her guest. But Ulf, for once, appeared ill at ease to her who knew his ways so well.

Then the King began to talk of government in words so wise, so thoughtful, that he forgot his own thoughts and listened heartily, planning to make good use of what he learned, in after days. The other men in the hall had gathered to meet the stranger, and they, too, said their word now and then, for those were the days when every man who had a good word to say in council was in no way backward about saying it. But some were not so courteous to the stranger as they might have been, and said one, when Ulf modestly raised a doubt in a case which he did not fully understand,

"Know thou, stranger, King Knut is more than king of men. The sea itself obeys him."

Had Ulf been older he would have passed it by unnoticed. As it was he merely asked Knut, with lifted eyebrow,

"Are these captains thine advisers?"

The King flushed hotly and turned to his flatterers.

"Sayest thou I am the lord of the sea—that it will obey my word?"

A dozen voices shouted "Yea!" in as many different ways. The King looked at them steadily for a moment, then with a half-smile waved his hand to his throne from which he had arisen, and said,

"Carry me that to the shore, and do thou attend."

It was low tide, but the young flood had begun to come in, and when the throne was placed well out toward the water, Knut seated himself and said,

"Wait! now shall we see the value of advisers."

Presently the incoming tide drew near, and the King arose, stretched out his hand to the waters and said,

"Back! I, Knut the Great, command thee. Back!"

Never a word replied the sea, but still the unceasing tide crept steadily on.

"Back, I say! Knut, Master of the Sea, commands it!"

Lip-lap, lip-lap came a gentle wave with a white fringe, circling in eddies landward, and splashed ever so gently under the royal chair; and if the King had not lifted them with haste the royal feet would have been wet. Then said the King, grimly smiling,

"It is well my men have proved their worth as captains, and need not be judged by this."

And his councillors were ashamed, and could not look him in the face for many days. But to Ulf he made presents of value.

Then said Ulf, with a rueful laugh,

"King Knut, I had deemed I had at least one thing worth offering as a gift to a King," and with the word he laid before him the white bear's hide, tanned with the head on, and in the cleft of it still stood the keen-edged battle-axe.

Knut's eye twinkled, reading now the reason for the young man's discomposure, for in his hall lay stretched a wealth of just such trophies, and he asked how it was won.

"Singlehanded," said Ulf.

"A shaft to each leg, then spear to the throat and axe to the brain."

Then said the King, significantly,

"If I have eleven other bearskins, am I not eleven times the better able to know its worth? It is a gift for a King!" and Ulf was content.

And History tells that in after days, when King Knut wanted to make an especially valuable gift to the Minster of Crowland, he could think of nothing richer than twelve great white bearskins, one for each of the twelve Apostles. I like to believe that one of them had a deep cleft in the back of the head, where Ulf's axe sank in. But I think Knut knew the value of a good steel weapon too well to give that away, for we read in another book that such an axe once owned by him was handed down till Harold of England owned it, and with it he cut to pieces a suit of armour hung on a post, by way of showing his strength to the King whose guest or prisoner he was—for at the time he was a little of both. And every stroke slashed that armour in such great holes that I think the axe that did it must indeed have been of Star, or nickel steel, and of itself a gift for a King!

For many a day Ulf dwelt with the King, and even sailed to Denmark with him for a space.

At last the time came for Knut to return to England, the larger country, where he lived for most of his reign, and Ulf went back with him and Edith with Ulf, of course. A mighty fleet sailed also,—never had either of them seen so many ships before,—and when the roll of the oars in the rowlocks came slipping over the glassy sea it rumbled like muttered thunder. Stirred by the sound, here and there the wilder blades among the crews remembered old war-days, and struck up the Northmen's warsong, the laughing, murder-singing "Yuch-hey-saa-saa- saa," that had carried terror with it to the lands beyond the water; and the trading vessels within hearing swung hastily southward and rowed away for dear life, fully believing that war had come again.



SPARK IX.

HOW THE STAR HELPED TO WIN A THRONE.

And war did come in time. Four kings rose and fell in Ulf's own lifetime. England was one great battlefield for many a year after Knut had died. Harold, Harthaknut, Eadward, and yet another Harold, one after another had their little say, and their own troubles,—the troubles of kings who know no better cure for them than war.

But Ulf was not of these. Too wise to linger long in that unfriendly air after the death of his friend the great King, he kept the seas as a free trader, and far and wide roamed the longship which he commanded. The gruff old captain who guarded the port of Wisby [Footnote: Wisby, A famous old walled town on the island of Gottland.] against all sea-thieves, cracked his face into what was meant for a happy smile when his watchers told him that the inrushing craft looked surely enough like Ulf's. The laughter-loving fisherwomen of Marwyk [Footnote: Marwyk. An old seaport on the coast of Flanders.] sprang up and threw silvery herring at each other from pure glee when their farseeing eyes spied out the flag of his vessel and read its strange device. That flag was like no other's, for it was as black as a crow's wing, save in the centre, where gleamed in the snow-white embroidery of Edith Fairhair a snarling white bear's head.



Once, indeed, Ulf got lost. For three full weeks he never saw a star. For three full weeks, day after day, his vessel fled before the gale onward, ever onward, over the gray, desolate, wildly tossing water, until they had need to spread their sail to catch the rain, for watercasks were empty; and one dried herring per day for food was all that Ulf could spare his crew out of their scanty stock. Then the sun broke out warm and cheery and green isles began to show themselves.

"This is a new land," quoth Ulf. "I wonder much what races dwell in it," and kept all the brighter lookout.

Still, food must be had, and he was ready to pay for it with wealth or blows,—whichever might be most convenient to the occasion. As it happened, the choice was not left to him, for two galleys darted out from a narrow strait, each flaunting a strange flag, blood-red, with a star and a single crescent pictured on. it. Dark, swarthy faces rose above the bulwarks, and wild warcries in an unknown tongue.

"Allah! Allahu!"

Then came the hiss of javelins.

Cheerily laughed Ulf and all his men, amazed and amused at the odd white turbans and the white teeth showing so plainly against the dark of the threatening faces; and the Barbary pirates in turn were thunderstruck when, instead of cries of fright, out growled again that laughing war-song, the laughter of death which never failed to send a shiver through the hearer, be he never so brave, if he knew he had to face the singers. There were men on those galleys who had heard the "Yuch-hey-saa-saa-saa" before and knew well what was to follow. But flight was now too late. And thus the Iron Star first warred against the turbaned warriors of the Crescent.

Ulf found much spoil in those two vessels,—golden cups, beautiful silken robes, and jewel-hilted weapons,—after the slightly difficult task of taking them was over; and plenty of provisions also, with which warily he turned square round on his heel and sailed back again for twice three weeks until he was in familiar waters once more, well content with what he had. As to the pirates, they deserved all they got, and Ulf and his men had a merry time with them while the fight lasted, which was as long as one was left alive. For those were wild times!

Scarcely were they in a safe port and rested, however, when great tidings flew abroad. How did such news travel? Ship told it unto ship, village sent word to village, perhaps signal-fires flashed it on from headland to headland, that in the north there was a great gathering of men of war, which always in those days meant battle. Hence Ulf wisely thought it well to fare northward himself and learn at first hand what it was all about. His hair was a little gray, now, and thin in spots where the helmet pressed; but his brain was just as ready for wise, long-headed plans as ever; and by his side a tall, slender lad now held his shield and guarded him when shafts were flying, and Ulf's own bow was bent. He, too, was one of the silent; yet, when asked, said he was Wulf, the son of Ulf of Sigurd's Vik.

So, one morning just at sunrise the flag of the White Bear's Head was floating in the land breeze, as the longship made its way into harbour among a vast fleet of other craft,—so vast that Wulf was surprised into speech, and Ulf himself admitted that he never had seen the like. The shore was one great camp; an army gathered; and Ulf found himself nodding greeting to many an old acquaintance as they shouldered through it, Wulf and he, straight for the heart of the throng; Ulf still carrying in one hand his unbent sea-bow, and Wulf, the long, straight, two-handed sword of his father, as well as his own keen axe —of Star steel, both.

Under a large tent a consultation of leaders was going on, and a dark, thick-set, angry-looking man was laying down the law to them in the strongest words he knew—and he knew a great many—when Ulf strode in. The captain stopped. Flashes of recognition shot into a face here and there; a wrathful growl came from one group, in the back of which was the mean, crafty face of Thorfin the Viking. Then the dark man strode sharply forward with a hearty greeting.

"What, Ulf the Silent? So you too will help an old comrade? This is well indeed. But what are these fellows growling about, like so many white-toothed mastiffs?"

"I've met their mates and them at Sigurd's Vik," quoth Ulf. "These few are what were left," and the other roared with laughter.

"You are the man I want, to keep these wild blades in order. A man like you is needed over them. I make you a sea-king here and now, and my clerk shall give you it in writing." And a sea-king Ulf was from that day, or, as we should now call it, "admiral,"—that is to say, a captain over other captains. It made Thorfin very angry, but since he cared a great deal for his own skin, he took considerable pains to keep in good order for many a day to come.

"But first," said Ulf, cautiously, "Tell me what this is all about."

Now those were the days when a king looked on his kingdom very much as though it was his private farm. It, and the people in it, existed chiefly for his sole benefit; and if they objected, so much the worse for the people. So, when Duke William of Normandy told Ulf a long story about his troubles, how Edward the Confessor, King of England and his cousin, had promised that when he died he would leave the kingdom to William, Ulf saw nothing strange in that.

Why should not a man give a farm to his cousin when he died, especially when that cousin's wife, Matilda, was another cousin? Then Harold, Duke of Wessex, had sworn by a whole tubful of relics of dead saints that when Edward died he would not stand in William's way. That, too, was a great thing to do. A promise ought to be kept to the letter, and how much more a sacred oath like that!—although men do say that Harold did not know there was a relic within a mile of him at the time he gave the promise.

But that promise Harold had not kept. On the contrary, he had claimed, first, that when he made it he had been shipwrecked on the Norman coast; he was really a prisoner, and gave the promise that he might get away; which as a matter of honour but made a bad matter worse.

Then, more reasonably, from our point of view, he claimed that the kingdom of England belonged to the English, and was not his to give. Englishmen had made him King, not William, and that was the end of it,—an answer which was likely to drive William nearly wild. And it did. William swore a great oath that before he died he would be King of all England. And Ulf, with many another, promised to help him.

Then Ulf went straight back to his ship again and that very night set a double guard as anchor-watch, for never in all his life, he said, had he seen so many thieves together at one time, and so few honest men. All of those same thieves and the other few presently set sail across the channel; and, odd to say, to this day there are men who proudly claim that a very far back ancestor of theirs "came over with William the Conqueror." But perhaps they have made themselves believe that that particular person was one of those honest ones.

Ulf talked it over with young Wulf in the first watch that night.

"If England were one 'twould be a mad voyage," he said. "Mind thou this, Wulf, when thou art captain, one arrow can be broken. Two also. But to break a bundle is another matter. This Harold is a strong man, but he has only a part of the country behind him. His own brother, Tostig, has raised a fleet against him, Thor knows where."

"His brother?" and Wulf stared in amaze.

"So William says, and he is a fox. Tostig is a hothead; he cannot govern himself, so of course he cannot rule others. He was made lord of the Northumbrians because of his royal blood, but they were men, not thralls, and presently told him that his health would be better in another land. Then he looked to Harold to help him with an army, but Harold found the Northumbrians were so much in the right of it that Tostig's rule was over, for help him he could not with any show of justice. Now, then, Tostig is sailing with the King of Norway, to raid the northern coasts."

"What! is Harold Hardrada of Norway with us too?"

"So William says. Harold Hardrada, the 'stern in council' is to strike at the mouth of the river Humber, while we land in the south country. It is easier so."

And it was. For the old story-tellers say that Harold of England marched with his army, night and day, to meet the raiders of Tostig; and with twenty of his house-guards he rode far ahead, hoping to meet and have peace with his brother and save England. Almost he succeeded, also, for he gave him a brother's welcome, a brother's love; promised him lands and a share in government; and Tostig was well-nigh persuaded. But he was in bad company. He had brought over this band of cutthroats, with the greatest of them all at their head, under promise of unlimited plunder. And now what about them? So he had to put the question to his brother.

"What shall be the share of my—friend, Harold Hardrada, who has come so far for me?" Then, they say, Harold of England gave a right royal answer. What was to be the share of this pirate?

"Seven feet of English ground for a grave. Or, as he is said to be a very tall man, perhaps we can allow him a little more."

If you would like to know more about Harold Hardrada, and what he did in his youth among the Turks at Constantinople, you can read a great deal in Sir Walter Scott's novel, "Count Robert of Paris," some of which, perhaps, is true. But, great fighter though he was, now was the time for his last battle; and on September 25, 1066, at Stamford- bridge, Harold of England met him and put him into the "seven feet of English ground" which he had promised him. It was a great victory, yet a sad one; for Tostig had refused the terms and fell fighting against his own countrymen, to be buried with the pirates whom he had captained. And in the South at Pevensey, four days later, William was landing.

Down came Harold from his victory, weary with fighting, weary with marching, yet sternly earnest to drive back the invaders and save the land from being harried, if he could. But October was half through before he met them at Hastings. All day long, on the 14th, they fought, and Harold held his own, though with the smaller army. Each man knew his place, and kept it, and William found them a wall of iron. At last his captains passed the word for a false retreat. The Saxons of Harold, with cheers, broke ranks to pursue, when round wheeled the Normans like hawks and plunged among them. Then came the crashing of battle-axe on helmet, and like a long, slow wave, the Norman line swept onward and the Saxon helms went down. A brief check around the summit of a hill, where Harold and his guards had rallied, —then arrows sped in flights upward to fall straight down among them. Their ranks were broken. And one by one each fell like a soldier in soldierly fashion where he stood with the loved captain among them. Just as, eight hundred years afterward in America fell the blue-clad soldiers around their general, Custer, fighting the Sioux Indians on the Western plains.

Thus William the Conqueror began to conquer England, and when he ended England was his own. Everywhere his captains built their castles, and where that captain was a Thorfin it was bad for the land. Still, now and then there was an Ulf among them, or one like him, who knew better how to govern; and all was well with them and theirs for many days.

Do you care to know what next the fragments of our Star beheld?



SPARK X.

HOW THE STAR SANG A SONG OF FREEDOM TO A CAPTIVE KING.

Once again all England was under one King. It was a sad time for the English, for the word of the Northman was the law, and wherever there seemed need for it, a grim, gray castle towered up solidly above the forest, with a great ditch, called a moat, dug around it; and behind that water and those walls of stone lived Normans, as they now were called.

Ulf, like the others, had his castle, and governed broad lands; but so well, and so well did Wulf and Wulf's son in his time, that nothing of note ever happened there, and therefore nobody ever heard of them. No man's house was burned by them with the owner in it. No one's cattle were carried off to the use of the castle without just payment. No one was killed without good cause, or what, in those days, was thought to be good cause. So this part of England lived long in placid quiet. There was no other castle within long marches through forest and bogland hard to pass over; and, for all of Ulf's peacefulness, if Thorfin, or some of his mates, wanted excitement, and thought it would be a good day to ride out and harry the land or besiege the home of a neighbour, someone would remember the old, old days around Sigurd's Vik, and suggest that to-morrow would be a better day than this to visit Ulf; the to-morrow that never came.

Daneshold they called it now; that is to say, the home, or hold of the Danes; and since they now spoke Norman-French more often than Saxon- English or Danish, Wulf's son was named Loup, which was pretty good French for "wolf;" and one more generation fled away under his rule, with nothing to record. Then came the day of his son in turn; Louis, or as he was now called in the new fashion, Louis of Daneshold.

Now Ulf had ploughed the sea so much in his youth that he was delighted to plough the land for the rest of his life. Wulf, as a boy, saw quite enough of sea-life to satisfy him. As it happened, Loup cared little for roaming; and the old traditions of the past were quite forgotten. But one day young Louis of Daneshold entered the armoury by chance, and came across a somewhat rusty old shirt of mail, quite out of style. He knew it must date back to the time of the vikings, and must have seen many a wild fray, and the fancy took him to polish it up and look for scars. In those days a lad was taught to shine up his armour as carefully as now he would be expected to polish his boots, and it was a pleasure to Louis to sit down with sand and buff-leather in the narrow window of the tower, and rub away at the steel until his arm ached. Then when the sunlight trickled over the mesh as brightly as it ever did, he began his scar-hunting. Then he rubbed his eyes with amazement, for scar there was none! Not a link was broken, not a dent. Only on one shoulder lay a thin shadow when the light was right, clearly the score of a swashing blow yet too shallow to be called a scar. What a wonderful thing was this!

He sprang up and slipped it on over his broad young shoulders. It fitted like a glove, and the sunset glow flushed in at the window and streamed across him in a ruddy battle-flood. In that same second he was seized with a longing to leave all this peacefulness, this land of lowing cattle and calm sunset, and see other lands and other ways of living. It was in his blood. A roamer he must be, as his great- grandfather had been before him. Then and there he made up his mind to be in the fashion with the courtly world that stirred in the heart of England. He would join the Crusade!

Do you know what that was?

In Palestine lies the holy city of Jerusalem, the burial-place of Jesus. For hundreds of years men had journeyed there,—folk called them pilgrims,—because it was such a holy place that just to visit it was thought to make men better, and more sure of Heaven in the eternity to come. But the way was hard and dangerous, and the journey at last became almost impossible; for from the far East had come Arabs, Moors, Syrians, dark races who wore turbans, whose flag was red with a silver crescent in it, and who worshipped God in another and a bloodier way than ours. To them, also, Jerusalem was a holy place.

Westward their armies swept until at last they captured the city, and they hold it as a Moslem possession to this day,—though twice for a short time it was wrested from them by the armies of the West. It seemed to those western men a terrible thing thus to surrender the sacred city to the "infidel." So king after king planned expeditions, with his neighbours, and sailed away with their bravest knights and fighting-men to recover it. These expeditions were called "crusades," and it was the third of these that Louis of Daneshold made up his mind to join.

Now, if he had been a great captain he would have sailed with a small army of fighting-men at his back, but being as he was, but a youth, with his war days all before him, he started more modestly; for in those times young men who had not learned by experience were content to work their way upward in the train of some knight of renown and wait for chances to win their names. Also, it was thought to be such a privilege that a famous knight was likely to have in his company as squires (as such usually well-born attendants were called) only the sons of his own personal friends; thus the best chance that Louis could obtain was but to be a squire in the troop of a poor knight who was quite unknown, and who was glad indeed to have a broad-shouldered youth along who paid his own way, and his own retainer's also, instead of asking payment.

So, while on ship and in camp, and on the journey, Louis was but one of a multitude, and his leader little better. But when they entered Palestine it was another story. Both were light-weights, and their horses stood the journey better than their comrades; thus gradually they began to be in the leading troops while on the march. The old- style cut of Louis's armour had caused him some heartaches when he was with his plate-armoured mates, but the very uniqueness of it caused the leading knights to rest their eyes on him when scanning their men for a good one to send out as a scout, and after one or two trials they began to learn that in all their host they had no swifter horseman, nor a keener eye for an ambush; nor, when it came to the point, a deadlier swordsman than that same blue-eyed, fair-haired lad.

And at last there came a day when the army was in line of battle against the Saracen; when the Knights of the Temple vied with the knights of other orders each striving to carry their flag farthest into that thorny jungle of flashing scimitars, and the huge arm of King Richard the Lion-hearted hewed a red road for them all which none could equal; for was he not the strongest man in the two entire armies—this King who could sever an iron bar with a swordstroke? But ever as he plunged with fresh zeal and ringing warcry into the heart of the fray, he became aware of a knight and his squire that as surely as his shadow, kept but a pace behind him; and the blows that were struck in that fight under the burning sun and with the loose sand of the desert underfoot made the day one to be remembered long by those that lived beyond it.

At last a fresh troop of tried warriors pressed forward on the wearied men of the West. Louder rang the shout of the turbaned men—

"Allah! Allahu!"

Backward, slowly yet surely, they drove their enemies everywhere save in that one spot where Richard swung his mace; and even he, too, gave place for a yard or two, leaving Louis and the other knight fighting like wildcats, back to back. Then Louis went down—down—into darkness. Of what happened next, how his leader for long minutes stood above him guarding both, till with a roar the angry King burst through the Saracens and rescued them, he knew nothing until he woke days afterward, feeling very tired, and a little light-headed, and oddly weak; just awake enough to wonder how he happened to be in a royal tent, watched over by a handsome, golden-haired young man, who smiled sunnily at him and talked to him in good French, saying that his name was Blondel. That Richard had declared so good a squire was worth being cared for by a king; and that Louis had but one business on hand, which was to go to sleep again, which he presently very contentedly did.

Now, this is not a history of King Richard. If you would like to know more about him and what he did in England and in Palestine you can read two of Sir Walter Scott's best books, "Ivanhoe" and "The Talisman," and very stirring times they tell about. What we are most concerned with is what the fragments of the Iron Star saw in their travels, and one stout piece of its steel had now parted from its comrades for ever. In that terrible battle, what was the value of one sword, more or less, to the knights as they charged and fell back with the surging of the red tide? So the sword that Louis wielded lay uncared for where it fell.

Meanwhile, yonder in the royal tent Louis and Blondel had joyous times together. It was delightful for the young Englishman to lie back among his cushions, with a servant to fan him and hand him cooling drink, to watch through the looped-up doorway the men-at-arms without, wrestling, quoit-throwing, boxing, fencing, in the way that men of English blood, the world over, keep their muscles sturdy and lithe, quick to guard their heads.

It was blissful, though embarrassing, when through the tent came Richard's stately little queen Berengaria, or her taller, more dignified cousin Edith, two of the most beautiful of women, and deigned to ask graciously, in the soft, low voice of pity, how he did. It was soul-stirring when the great King himself came striding in, perhaps full of wrath over some bit of state-craft gone wrong, perhaps joyous with the prospect of another battle; perhaps in as happy and more peaceful a mood, when he would seize the harp of Blondel and sweep the strings with massive, yet practised hands, and send his great voice rolling across the encampment in thundering song, like the impetuous Frenchman that he was.

For Richard I. was French! We are so apt to look on him as the King of the English, and as being so very much of an Englishman as to be the sample of the race, that we are apt to forget that although he was born in England his mother was French, his father French by descent, and Richard himself ruled England for the most of his reign from his home in France—when he was not off on a Crusade away from both countries—and carried on wars in France. All told, he did not live twelve months on English soil. But the knights of England were so French—Norman-French—themselves that this did not greatly matter to them. Still less did it matter to Louis! But one day those great hands picked up the harp more hastily than usual and with a war-song clashed the strings; and presently there came a sharp twang or two, and the singer looked at Blondel like a schoolboy caught in mischief for the harp lay a wreck in his hands.

"Never mind, Blondel," laughed the royal culprit, "there is gold yet in our coffers with which to buy another."

"That may be, your Majesty," replied Blondel, ruefully, "But all the gold of Saladin could not buy what is not; and where to look for harp- strings in this land of sand is beyond me!"

Then spoke up Louis from his couch right gladly,

"But I have a set! I found them packed away with my armour by some mistake of a retainer, although I know more of sword-play than of music."

"Time enough yet for both, lad," cried the King. "The true knight is master of both, and knight shalt thou be when next on horse again!" A matter which indeed came to pass; for Richard laughingly declared that, considering that the young man already had fairly won his knightly spurs in the field, never was a set of harp-strings so cheaply bought before as by the exchange just ordered. But Louis lay back on his cushions with his heart fluttering like a girl's, knowing well that it was but a jest of the merry monarch's, and that the real honour he meant the world to know was battle-won.

Thus he came back from Palestine "Sir Louis of Daneshold," with the red cross of the Crusader blazoned on his shoulder, and knighted by the King's own hand. And thus it came to pass, also, that Blondel struck up such a friendship for the giver of the harp-strings, and found them so wonderfully resonant, that when the expedition broke up and all started homeward, he insisted on going with him, at least part way. Thus they had a joyous journeying together by land and sea.

But one day, after they had parted company, word came to Blondel as he sang at the banquet table of a castle; a word carelessly spoken by a guest as of a matter which every one knew. And by cautious questioning he learned that Richard of England had never reached his kingdom; that Leopold, Duke of Austria, treacherously had made him prisoner while crossing his dukedom, whither a shipwreck had driven him, and handed him to an enemy of his, Emperor Henry VI., who paid sixty thousand pounds for him and now held him chained deep in some one of the many castles of his domain. In which one, no one knew.

Richard a captive! Blondel could hardly credit it. He sang no more that night, nor for many nights.

Months afterward, a minstrel went roaming here and there, apparently aimlessly, throughout Germany. Everywhere the lovely music that breathed from his harp-strings made him welcome at the towering castles that surmounted the cliffs along the winding Rhine. His handsome face and joyous songs made him the favourite among the maidens and they begged him to pass the season as their guest; but no. For a week, perhaps, he would be with them, then like a swallow he must on again to other resting-places, and long afterward the young girls on the castle walls would sing at their tasks the snatches of melody left in their memories as he passed.

One day in the town of Durrenstein the minstrel heard of an illustrious prisoner who was held captive in the castle of Trifels, surrounded by almost impassable crags. Much that goes on in the fortress becomes known outside in the market town, through the gossip of servants who come down for supplies. They like to know what is going on in the world outside, and in payment for such news are ready to give the little items of castle life; how Hans the man-at-arms fell asleep on guard and got a week in the prison on bread and water in consequence; how the Spanish envoy tried to kiss one of the maids when he had taken too much wine, and thus had forgotten that he was a gentleman; and what happened in consequence of his forgetfulness. Little things, of no importance whatever to the world, yet with now and then a grain of wheat among the chaff. Thus Blondel found his grain of wheat.

Striking the strings of his harp he sang with a full heart the most joyous carol that he knew, a song so bubbling over with mirth and sheer happiness that the whole market-place seemed to wear a broad smile and the wooden shoes of the peasants kept time with clumping thumps in the dusty road to the rhythm of the tune.

The man-at-arms from the castle smote his thigh till all the joints of his armour clashed and rattled:

"And here I must back with this message without a halt, with music like that going on down below. Why, it's enough to make our great noble in his dungeon forget his chains! Well, duty is duty. Here's my last coin, minstrel, for that song."

The minstrel laughed, throwing back his curly head and showing his white and pearly teeth.

"I pity thee, man-at-arms. 'Tis better to be a bird in the bush than in a cage. But this coin is heavy and I owe thee change. To-night, then, if thou art on the castle walls I'll come and sing to thee."

"It's a bargain!" and homeward rode the man in armour, clanking and clashing, and in his hoarse voice making vague shouts after bits of the carol that still haunted him, wondering meanwhile if the minstrel really would come.

He need not have wondered. Had not that minstrel wandered half over Germany expressly to sing under those walls? Hardly had the moon been up an hour, thus lighting a fearful way among those ledges, when step by step, hand over hand, up climbed the boyish form of Blondel, by a footpath way not by the guarded road, and with his harp upon his back. A moment to rest, a moment to take breath and to turn with his golden key the peg that tightened a string,—then soft, low, trembling like the wind that sweeps aimlessly, ceaselessly through the sighing forest branches came the throbbing melody as the slender fingers strayed across the wires! whispering a song of love of bygone days when two were wandering under a glad, sunny sky in a free land, where birds in the near-by forest were nest-building, where sorrow, clouds and darkness were unknown. Then as the moonlight shone like a star on the steel helmet of the watcher who leaned so breathlessly over the battlements, into the night air far below him swung the rich, resonant voice of the musician, the words clear and cleancut, and of such a penetrating sweetness that the ironsheathed warrior above all unconsciously leaned still further over the stonework, and, hardened though he was, made no pretense to stop slow tears that came to his eyes and fell, drop by drop, to glitter like diamonds among the rough rocks far below.

The singer ceased. But the harp still kept up its rhythmic humming; and presently, muffled by distance and winding passages, as it seemed out from the very stones of the rugged tower, in a voice, harsh, strong, yet cultivated, came the second verse of that love-song, sung with a full heart, throbbing with a newborn hope, sung as never before had it been rendered in the old days when Blondel had taught it to Richard in sun-scorched Palestine!

The watcher sprang up at his post, troubled, alert. What did this portend? He leaned over to seek that minstrel who sang to prisoners, and send an arrow through him; but the minstrel had disappeared; nor was he heard from for weary weeks; but then came from England a demand for release so peremptory that Henry sulkily felt compelled to accept the ransom money and set King Richard free. Blithely the King took leave of his surly host whose hotel bill was so high, as is somewhat the fashion in that region to this day. The sun shone gloriously as it seemed sun never shone before. The birds made the air ring with music. Yet no melody that Richard ever heard again was likely to seem as sweet to him as did that song of Blondel's when it came stealing so helpfully through the narrow slits that served as windows in his dungeon cell.

This is the legend. Possibly it is true. But there is another story told about it which perhaps is the real one: for men do say that the emperor, Henry, was so elated with his luck in having as a prisoner the man he hated that he had to tell someone about it. The friend he chose to tell it to was Philip, King of France, or else Philip learned of it in some other way. At least he passed the news onward by letter to someone else; and so in time the ransom came and Richard was brought back again. I tell you this, because our story began in Myth, but now, as you see, already we have got to History.



SPARK XI.

HOW THE STAR WAS PRESENT AT THE GREAT GIFT OF THE BARONS.

If you think about it for a moment you will see that we cannot stop to tell of all the wonderful things which the Iron Star saw in its travels, nor can we talk of an event for every year. We must do as sometimes you see the swallows do when they go skimming across a lake, not stopping at every wave, yet now and then making a little splash as a beakful of water is scooped up, or perhaps a floating fly. And possibly you are wondering just why we took that last little dip of ours into the Crusades; but there was a reason.

You will remember that one of the first things that our Star did was to travel, and the boy and girl of that day travelled with it, thus seeing things which they never would have seen had they stayed at home. So now, the Crusades were the cause of many a young Englishman's starting off for a new land, and such of them as came back brought with them new ideas and memories of many strange bits of knowledge to talk about in the long evenings. To a land of wool and leather they brought back silks and other luxuries, and they had discovered that there were good things to eat in the world besides beef and mutton or wild venison; and the dignified manners and stately speech of the Arab chiefs, whom they met in moments of truce, had their effect as models in spite of race hatred. These were not bad matters for England to know about.

Unfortunately, in such a time the best and bravest men are apt to be among the first to go, while those who stay at home are more likely to be of the less worthy. Prince John, who stayed at home, so proved himself. First, when King Richard was away fighting, and his mother, Queen Eleanor, was regent—that is to say, was ruling the land for him until he returned—John lived in England like a prince, and a very bad prince at that. He ran in debt, he lived fast, and by his example he set such a wicked fashion for his friends to imitate that, outside of his set, no one could live and be safe and happy, the prince acting very much as though he were already king. When it was reported that Richard was a prisoner, instead of planning how to help him, John said to himself,

"Hurrah! now I will be king for myself, not king for my brother!" and plotted to do evil with his new power. In "Ivanhoe" it is stated that he even tried to have his brother killed when at last he reached home from his prison beyond the seas. It is very likely, as you will see from what did happen later.

A large part of what is now France in those days still was under English rule; or, more correctly, England was ruled by the king of that part of France and by the warriors who had come from there. Richard and John, both Frenchmen by descent, had a young nephew named Arthur, who ruled over Normandy, Aquitaine, Bretagne and other French land, and this land John had long desired to add to his own private farm. One day Richard was killed while attacking a rebellious castle, and John at once said to himself,

"Now is my chance!"

He promptly made a prisoner of boy Arthur, and shut him up in a great tower. Very piteous tales are told of what happened next. Some say that John ordered a hardhearted servant to burn out Arthur's beautiful blue eyes with a hot iron. What John himself said was that "the boy died in prison," and that to him as next of kin belonged those fair lands of Aquitaine beyond the English Channel.

But what the world said, and especially the Pope, who at that time was the all-powerful ruler of all Christian men in matters of right and religion, was,

"You murdered him for his lands; but it shall profit you nothing, for not one penny of his wealth shall come to you. Another man shall be the heir." And it was so.

This made John very angry, but that did not give him the money for which he had so deeply sinned. We in our day wonder that he himself was not put in prison and killed in punishment for the deed. But kings had great powers in those days. They could condemn a man to death if they would; if it was not done too often, the rest of the world felt to make sure that more heads were not loose on their shoulders, and were too grateful to find them safe to murmur about the fate of other heads, lest a worse thing befall.

Perhaps, when things became too bad, some revengeful man who had been deeply injured would try to meet evil with evil by murdering the king, or by getting up a war against him. In either case, many innocent men had to suffer from the evils that grew out of it.

But one day a better way was found. Louis of Daneshold was now a grave, broadshouldered, powerful man. The Crusades had knit together the knights and barons of England into a close brotherhood, and for the king to harm one was likely to arouse the wrath of all. The young men who had faced the Saracens and fought shoulder to shoulder in Palestine were now in England the men of mark, whose words had to be listened to and heeded by all who would keep out of trouble. Hotheaded John was not one to put a check on his tongue when it would be wise to do so, and hardly was Richard buried when John found himself at odds with Louis and his comrades. They would not submit to his evil doings as king. They would not permit him to take for his own use the lands, cattle, money which they had earned by hard fighting. And finally, when he had a war of his own on his hands in Flanders, fighting French nobles, the English lords flatly refused to follow him across the water, since they had neither love for him as a king nor confidence in him as a leader; and as to the war itself it was king against baron, and they sided with the baron. As a consequence, John came back to England again, well beaten; and he did not love those barons!

For a time after his return he tried to smooth things over and bring back the old way of kingly rule once more. But those stern-eyed men, clad in steel, had tasted freedom. They knew their own strength now. Was it likely that Louis of Daneshold, with the blood of Norse ancestors in his veins, and those Crusader comrades of his, every whit as sturdy fighters, would hold in great respect a tricky king, a murderer of little boys, a man who could not lead to victory in his own battle? No! a thousand times no! And iron clanged on iron when word from the King was brought to the nobles as they camped at London. Down came the mailed hand of many a knight with a resounding blow.

"No compromise! no treaty, save on our own terms!" was their warcry, and what those terms were, John Lackland of England was soon to know. One thousand two hundred and fifteen was the year; twenty-four years after Richard's last Crusade, and his death. The world had been moving fast meanwhile. Freedom was thought more of. The younger men had grown up to be great captains in their turn; and in this year they did a deed which was far reaching, for we feel the effects of it to this day.

Helmeted, and sword in hand, with a host of stalwart men-at-arms at their back, they called on John at Runnymede. It was not a friendly call. There was too much iron present for that. Iron glove meant iron hand that day, and John Lackland knew it. Sternly those assembled barons told him that the time for smooth words was past. "The divine right" of kings had been held up to the broad light of a modern day, and found to be motheaten by time. Its fabric was thin as cobweb, and there was nothing "divine" about it; nothing but the plain fact that "king's right" was merely the might of the strong, not the right of the just, and if it must come to that, they were muscular Christians too, and could behead a man as well as another. So then and there they laid before him a written agreement or "charter," as they called it, and told him to place at the end of it the written signature of the king, which would thus make it the law of the land.

It was a bitter moment for that sullen king. He would have refused to sign it had he dared. But there, to right and left of him, scowled the menacing faces of the fiercest fighters in all England. Crusader waved his hand to Crusader across the hall, and in that greeting the low clash of steel rippled through the ranks. To refuse that signature meant—not the death of his friends, his comrades, his helpers in doing evil. That result not greatly would have troubled him. No! It meant what to him was a more serious matter. It was his own life now which he must buy by his signature, or die. He was not ready for that, so John Lackland of England signed the charter.

What a great thing for England and the world it was! for among other things the agreement read that

"NO FREEMAN SHALL BE IMPRISONED OR PUT TO DEATH, OR HAVE HIS PROPERTY TAKEN FROM HIM, BUT BY THE JUDGMENT OF HIS PEERS (his equals) OR BY THE LAW OF THE LAND!"

And now, seven hundred years later, if it is claimed that a man does wrong and breaks the law he is arrested and brought before a judge. But before that judge can sentence him to death or long imprisonment the whole story is told before twelve men, called a jury, who decide whether he deserves punishment or not. And this is the great gift handed down to us by those barons of old from the days when, if he wished a person's death, it was enough for a king to say, "I do not like that man!"

To this day we speak of that agreement as "the great charter;" or more often, we use the words of the Latin language in which it was written (since all learned men then, whether Saxon, Norman, French or Dane, could read and understand that common tongue) words which mean the same, and we call it

"MAGNA CHARTA."



SPARK XII.

AND HOW IT WENT HALF ROUND THE EARTH, YET CROSSED AGAIN AT LAST THE TRAIL OF LEIF ERICSSON.

A thistle bloomed in a garden. A small boy forgot to pull it up. His twin sister saw it, but said that thistle-pulling was not her work, so it went to seed. One seed was caught up by a wind and went drifting, drifting, a little balloon of thistledown, until it reached the clouds and travelled westward with them for thousands of miles. Then the cloud struck a mountain and burst into rain. The seed went down among the drops. Months afterward a boy with a dark skin came stealing along that mountain slope, trying to get shot at a deer, and put his bare knee on an unknown plant that pricked him sharply,—so sharply that he said, "Oh!" or a word in his language which meant the same. It was lucky for the deer, which took fright and ran away, but the boy had no dinner that day.

I like to think that splinters from my Iron Star are journeying across the world somewhat more solidly than thistledown, yet making themselves felt wherever they stop to rest. I like to think that possibly one splinter was forged into the identical steel needle which formed the indicator in the office of the first Atlantic cable, that three-thousand-mile-long wire, covered with gutta percha to keep out the salt water, which was laid from England to America under the ocean. You know that we telegraph by electricity, which is lightning in harness. But you may not know that this first deep-sea wire sent messages which were read by the way in which a flash of light was reflected in a mirror, wavering to and fro; and that the very first message was a greeting of peace and goodwill from Queen Victoria to President Buchanan.

The first message sent by the cable read as follows:—

"To the President of the United States, Washington

"The Queen desires to congratulate the President upon the successful completion of this great international work, in which the Queen has taken the greatest interest.

"The Queen is convinced that the President will join with her in fervently hoping that the electric cable, which now connects Great Britain with the United States, will prove an additional link between the nations, whose friendship is founded upon their common interest and reciprocal esteem.

"The Queen has much pleasure in thus communicating with the President, and renewing to him her wishes for the prosperity of the United States."

Let us pick up the thread of the story of one sharp splinter which we have lost sight of;—the sword which Louis of Daneshold lost in battle, which Wulf had carried and which Ulf had made far back in the days of the Northmen.

Men do not linger long around a battlefield after the fight is over, unless it is their fate to stay there forever; and with rattle of mailed harness and blare of trumpet-calls the Crusaders tramped heavily away through the sand, leaving behind them here and there a red spot on the earth, here and there a Saracen. Then, in time, a lightfooted, lightfingered troop of Arabs dashed into the little valley, sharply scanning the ground to right and left for forgotten weapons worth the picking up.

One wild, swift riding young fellow came sweeping along with his white burnous, or robe, trailing behind him in the air, and down he bent to earth like a circus rider as his eye caught a flash of sunlight. With a shout of triumph he snatched up a straight cut-and-thrust sword, which in weight and size seemed exactly made for him. This was unusual luck; for, as he said gleefully to his comrades, while Frankish swords were not uncommon trophies of war yet usually they were heavy, clumsy things, not easily wielded by the hands of Eastern men. So, that night by the camp fire at the little well under the date palms, Mohammed Ali Ben Ibyn, no longer a wild, reckless horseman, but a grave, dignified young man, thrust a fresh coal into the bowl of his long stemmed pipe, handed it politely to an elder friend, and beckoned to a slave to bring him that new weapon from his tent. Taking it he made a few passes and cuts at the empty air to learn the balance of it, then set the point of it on the metal boss of a small shield at his feet, steadily pressing downward.

Down, down went the hilt while the splendidly tempered blade curved under the pressure into a bow, until before their astonished eyes hilt and point kissed each other. Then the spring of the steel slowly overcame the muscle in the arm that bent it, and the hilt turned ever so slightly in the hand, yet quite enough; for the point glanced from the metal and sank into the leather, the blade sprung into line, and with a whiz the little buckler slid out from under foot, flew up from the sand as though it had wings and skimmed away far beyond the firelight.

"Allah kerim!" cried the astonished Arab. "God is merciful! This is a sword for a sultan. See, it is as straight as when it was made. No chief in the army of Saladin has a better blade."

"True, O son of Sheik Ibyn. The blade is perfect. But the hilt is not. Seest thou not that it is made like the cross of the infidel, the unbeliever? Good luck will not follow thee, wielding that sign."

"That is easily remedied,—" began Mohammed Ali, but got no further; for from one of the other fires a tall Arab stepped forward, clad in a long robe and a white turban, and with a beard that reached his waist. Lifting his powerful voice he sent it forth in a chant that made itself heard from end to end of the camp; and far out in the surrounding desert the jackals that whined and skulked among the sandhills dropped to earth hushed by the sonorous call. Not a leaf in the palms was astir. Not a breath of the night wind swayed a tent curtain. The chant rang through a stillness broken only by the low snap and crackle of the fires.

"Ashhadu an la illah illa-llah, Ashhadu anna Mohammadar ra-sool ulla."

chanted the long robed priest. "God is God, and Mohammed is his Prophet! There is no God but God! To prayer, O sons of the Faithful!— "just as at that hour, all over Arabia, other priests in other places were sending out their warning summons in camp and city, under the palms and from the lofty minarets of countless round-domed mosques or temples, wherever ruled the might of the Eastern faith.

Forth from their fires stepped the dark skinned warriors and formed in line, facing Mecca, the birthplace of their prophet Mohammed, and to them a most holy place. Not ashamed were they to say their prayers to the Father of All, nor to ask for help and guidance; and the wildest fighter of them all knelt and prayed as earnestly as a child, knowing well that if God was with him it mattered nothing if the whole world was against him; although in the desert the Arab's own proverb says that "No man meets a friend."

Then, their prayers ended, it was night, and time for sleep. And, after all, it was not Mohammed Ali Ben Ibyn's hand which put a new hilt to that sword, but another's; for its fame, in that land where a good weapon is beyond price, was carried from camp to camp, and the sword itself became the cause and centre of a little war all its own. Once a man stole it, and on a swift camel he fled by night only to fall into the power of still greater thieves and wickeder men. Thus the sword, like a firebrand, was passed from hand to hand. At one time it even got as far south as Abyssinia, in Africa, and became by purchase the property of a Hamran Arab, one of the most daring, reckless, fearless, skilful hunters that ever walked on earth, as his people are to this day.

He was one of four brothers, and every day in the hunting season they used to ride out together elephant hunting, yet armed with nothing but their swords. In spite of his great size an elephant is wonderfully quick in movement, and it is a good horse that can outrun him. Yet one of these four brothers, the smallest and lightest of them, would ride up close to the head of a wild elephant and tease him into a charge. The instant that the great ears were cocked forward and the wicked little eyes flashed the warning that he was coming, round would whirl the good horse and away he would fly with the great grey beast striding after him like a runaway steam-engine, screaming with rage. Then up from the rear would come the other brothers like hawks; a leap to the ground while at full speed, sword in hand! a swift, circling blow, and the steel would bite deep into the thick leg just above the heel, and like a gadfly the hunter would be away and in saddle again before the blow of the whistling trunk could reach him.

Another tempting by the youngest brother, another vain charge, another flash of the circling sword in the sun, and with the sinews cut in both hind legs that elephant's running days would be over, and presently he would die almost a painless death from loss of blood, slain in spite of his great size by just two strokes of a sword! Then at the nearest village there would be great rejoicing. The young girls would clap their hands and praise the courage of the brothers; all the older people would sharpen their knives and prepare to go to market, for even one elephant could not be carried home in a basket. It would provide steaks and roasts enough for a whole village; while the four brothers would carefully cut out the great tusks of gleaming white ivory,—each perhaps weighing half as much as a man, and worth a little fortune to them when traders reached their tribe. For such ivory was sold from hand to hand until sometimes it reached even far- away Britain, where it was made into sword-hilts, thrones, and other things for kings.

Those were peaceful days for the sword, and useful ones. It is no small matter to provide food for a whole village full.

Centuries rolled away, and men went with them. From hand to hand went the sword of Ulf, ever the possession of one who knew its worth, and more than one etched on its blade, with acid or otherwise, brief sayings, each in their own tongue—now forgotten; just as even nowadays you may sometimes find on a Spanish blade some good word as a warning to the user, such as,

"Draw me not without cause; sheathe me not without honour." One day, to Ghent, in the Netherlands, there came a man, short, though broadly built. His hair was chestnut, and in his eyes there was a glint of the same red, especially when he was angry, which was not seldom; for as he said of himself, "A little pot is soon hot."

English he was by birth, and of a noble family; yet for many a year he had lived the life of a soldier, and to some of the great captains who warred in that time against the Turks he was not unknown as one who did daring deeds when in the mood, or when it was his duty. In Ghent, then, there lived an old armourer to whom this man did some great service in protecting his goods and very possibly his life from robbers.

The soldier made light of the matter, but the old armourer took a different view and was very grateful; so grateful, indeed, that from his store of arms of all sorts he brought forth a curious sword which had a curious story, for he told a long, rambling tale of love and war in which the weapon had figured, claiming that it came from Persia last, yet was made in Damascus, a city of great fame as a place where the best sword-blades were forged. It was of splendid steel, it is true, yet if the old man had trusted his eyes instead of his ears he would have seen that, whether it came last from Persia or not, whether the hilt was put on at Damascus or not, yet that nearly straight, cut- and-thrust blade was not the fashion in which Eastern swords were made. On the contrary, it was distinctly a Western style. This weapon the armourer insisted on the soldier accepting as a gift; and he, seeing how much the giver desired it, was not unwilling, taking care at a later time to do the armourer another good turn in a matter of a large order for arms and armour, although the old man knew it not. Thus he kept the balance of favours even.

Now this sword had inscriptions etched on it in unknown tongues, and also the sun, moon, and stars of the night deeply bitten in by the craft of some former owner. I will not say that it was the sword of Ulf. I will say only that I like to think it might have been; for the short soldier took it, whistled it through the air around his head a few times, and straightway went and had a few signs of his own engraved upon it.

In Holland at that time there was a little company of English men and women who had come over there because of trouble about religious matters at home, where they were not allowed peaceably to worship God in the way they thought was right. They were planning to go to the new world which had been discovered across the seas, and it seemed to the impetuous soldier that they would have need of him in such a journey, so he went with them. They did not sail direct from Holland, but went over to England again first, and sailed from Plymouth. Do you not know now the rest of the story without my telling it? Do you not know that the famous sword of that fiery little soldier, who valiantly stood so many times between those wanderers and death, is now to be seen among the most precious relics treasured at the old town of Plymouth, Massachusetts? And the name of that sword was "Gideon," and the name of the noble, quick-tempered, warm-hearted little soldier, a name which will be remembered as long as the United States of America exist, was Captain Myles Standish.

THE END