To my mind, no gale seems so wild as one that comes at the time of full moon, when the clouds break up and fly in great masses of black and silver against the deeper sky beyond, while bright light and deepest shadow chase each other across land and sea beneath them. Kolgrim and I stood under the lee of a shed, waiting for the fisher to get his boat afloat, and looked out on bending trees and whitened water, while beyond the harbour we could see the great downs, clear cut and dark, almost as well as by day, so bright it was.

It was low water now, which was good for us, for the winding channels that lead up to Wareham were sheltered under their bare banks. We could hear the thunder of the surf along the rocky coast outside, when the wind ceased its howling for a moment; and at high water the haven had been well nigh too stormy for a small boat. Now we should do best to go by water, for wind was with us; though, unless the gale dropped very quickly, we could not return in her, for there would be a heavy sea and tide against us if we could get away before it turned, while if we were long wind against tide would be worse yet.

The fisherman was eager to help us against the Danes, who had made him work for nought; and so in half an hour we were flying up the haven on the first rise of tide, and the lights of Wareham town grew plainer every moment. From the number of twinkling sparks that flitted here and there, it would seem that many folk were waking, even if some movement were not on hand.

Presently we turned into the channel that bends to the southwest from the more open water, and the town was before us. The fisher took to his oars now, lowering the scrap of sail that had been enough to drive us very swiftly before the gale so far.

Wareham stands on the tongue of land between two rivers’ mouths, and the tide was setting us into the northward of these. That was the river one would have to cross in coming to or from Poole, and maybe we should learn as much there as anywhere.

There were three ships on the mud, but even in the moonlight it was plain that they were not seaworthy. There were wide gaps in their bulwarks, which none had tried to mend, and the stem head of one was gone.

“These ships were hurt in the storm of lest week,” the fisher said, as we drifted past them; “there was hardly one that came in unhurt. But the Danes were eager to go, and mended them as they could.”

Perhaps that was partly the reason why we gained so easy a victory, I thought at the time, and afterwards knew that I was right. They had suffered very much, while we lay across channel in safety.

There loomed before us the timbers of a strong bridge that had been over the north river, when we were fairly in it and under the nearer houses of the town. But now it was broken down, and the gap in its middle was too wide for hasty repair.

“When was this done?” I asked the fisherman.

“Since yesterday,” he answered.

Now this seemed to me to indicate that the Danes meant to guard against attack by land from Poole; also that they overrated our numbers, which was probable in any case, seeing that a fleet had fled from before us.

There were wharves on the seaward side of the bridge, but none were beyond; and the houses stood back from the water, so that there was a sort of open green between it and them. There were no people about, but we could hear shouts from the town now and then.

“Let us go ashore and speak with some one,” I said; “it is of no use our biding here on the water.”

Kolgrim and I were fully armed, and had boat cloaks with us which covered us well, and we thought none would question who we were if we mixed among the men in some inn or other gathering place. So we bade the fisher wait for us, and found the stairs, and went to the wide green along the waterside, and across it to the houses, which were mostly poor enough here.

Many of them stood open, and in one a fire burned on the hearth, but all were empty. So we turned into a street that led seemingly from one bridge to the other across the town. Here men were going hither and thither with torches, and groups were outside some of the houses. To the nearest of these I went, as if I had all right to be in the place.

They were bringing goods out of the house, and loading a cart with them.

“Here is a flitting,” said Kolgrim, “and another or two are on hand yonder.”

I stayed a man who came past me from out of a house.

“I have fled from Poole,” I said. “What is in the wind here? Are we to leave Wareham also?”

“If you come from Poole, you should know that it is time we did so,” he answered shortly. “I suppose you saw the whole business.”

“So I did,” I answered. “What are the orders?”

“Pack up and quit with all haste,” said he. “You had better get to work if you have aught to save.”

“Shall we go to Exeter, or back to Mercia?” I said.

“Exeter they say; but I know not. Why not go and ask Jarl Osmund himself or follow the crowd and hinder no one with questions?”

He hurried on; but then some men began to question us about the doings off Swanage, and Kolgrim told them such tales that they shivered, and soon we had a crowd round us listening. Nor did I like to hurry away, for I heard a man say that we were Northmen, by our voices. But there were plenty of our folk among the Danes.

Then came a patrol of horsemen down the street, and they bade the loiterers hurry. I drew Kolgrim into an open doorway, and stood there till they passed, hearing them rate their fellows for delay.

“Wareham will be empty tomorrow,” I said. “Now we can go; we have learned enough.”

Still I would see more, for there seemed no danger. Every man was thinking of himself. So we went across the town, and as we came near the western bridge the crowd grew very thick.

We heard before long that the army was as great as Odda had thought, and that they were going to Exeter. Already the advance guard had gone forward, but this train of followers would hardly get clear of the town before daylight. They had heard great accounts of our numbers, and I wished we had brought the ships up here at once. There would have been a rout of the Danes.

But the place was strange to me, and to Odda also, so that we could not be blamed.

We got back by the way we came, and then knew that we could in no way take the boat to Poole. The gale was raging at its highest, and thatch was flying from the exposed roofs. It would be dead against us; and the sea was white with foam, even in the haven. So we must go by road, and that was a long way. But we must get back to Odda, for he should be in Wareham before the Danes learned, maybe, that their flight was too hurried.

Now it seemed to me that to leave Wareham was not so safe as to come into it, for no Dane would be going away from the place. However, the bridge was down; and if it had not been done in too great haste, any fugitives from the country would have come in. So that maybe we should meet no one on the road that goes along the shore of the great haven.

The fisherman ferried us over to the opposite shore, and then tied his boat to the staging of the landing place, saying that he was well known and in no danger. He would sleep now, and bring his boat back when the wind fell. So we left him, thanking him for his goodwill.

Grumbling, as men will, we set out on our long walk in the gale. We could not miss the road, for it never left the curves of the shore, and all we had to do was to be heedful of any meetings. There might be outposts even yet, watching against surprise.

However, we saw no man in the first mile, and then were feeling more secure, when we came to a large farmstead which stood a short bowshot back from the road, with a lane of its own leading to the great door. What buildings there were seemed to be behind it, and no man was about; but there was light shining from one of the high windows, as if some one were inside, and plain to be seen in the moonlight were two horses tied by the stone mounting block at the doorway.

“Here is a chance for us, master,” said my comrade, coming to a stand in the roadway. “I must try to steal these horses for ourselves. If Danes are in the place, they have doubtless stolen them; and if Saxons, they will get them back.”

“There will be no Saxon dwelling so near the Danes,” I said. “Maybe the place is full of Danes some outpost that is careless.”

“Careless enough,” said Kolgrim. “If they are careless for three minutes more, they have lost their horses.”

Then we loosened our swords in their sheaths, and drew our seaxes, and went swiftly up the grassy lane. The wind howled round the house so that none would hear the clank of mail, which we could not altogether prevent. But the horses heard us, and one shifted about and whinnied as if glad to welcome us.

At that we ran and each took the bridle of that next him, and cut the halter that was tied to the rings in the wall, looking to see the doors thrown open at any moment. Then we leaped to the saddles and turned to go. The hoofs made a great noise on the paving stones before the doorway, yet there was no sound from inside the house.

That seemed strange to me, and I sat still, looking back with the horse’s head turned towards the main road.

“Stay not, master,” Kolgrim said. “’Tis some outpost, and the men have slept over the farmhouse ale. Maybe the stables behind are full of horses. Have a care, master; the door opens!”

He was going; but I waited for a moment, half expecting to see a spear point come first, and my hand was on my sword hilt. But the great heavy door swung slowly, as if the one who opened it had trouble with its weight. So I must needs see who came. Maybe it was some old man or woman whose terror I could quiet in a few words.

Then the red firelight from within shone out on me, and in the doorway, with arms raised to post and door on either hand, stood a tall maiden, white robed, with gold on neck and arm. The moonlight on her seemed weird with the glow of the fire shining through the edges of her hood and sleeves. I could see her face plainly, and it was fair and troubled, but there was no fear in her looks.

“Father, is this you?” she said quietly.

I could make no answer to that, and she looked intently at me; for the moon was beyond me, and both Kolgrim and I would seem black against it, as she came from the light within, while the wind, keen with salt spray, was blowing in her face.

“Who is it?” she said again. “I can scarcely see for moon and wind in my eyes.”

“Friends, lady,” I said, for that at least was true in a way.

“Where are my horses? Have you seen aught of our thralls, who should have left them?” she asked, looking to whence we had just taken the beasts.

Now I was ashamed to have taken them, for she was so plainly alone and helpless, and I could not understand altogether how it could be so. I was sure that she was Danish, too.

“How is it that you have not fled, lady?” I asked. “Surely you should have gone.”

“Ay; but the thralls fled when they heard the news. Has not my father sent you back for me?”

This seemed a terrible plight for the maiden, and I knew not what to say or do. She could not be left in the way of our Saxons if they came on the morrow, and I could not take her to Poole. And so, lest I should terrify her altogether, I made up my mind even as she looked to me for an answer.

“I think your father is kept in Wareham in some way. Does he look for you there?”

“Ay, surely,” she answered; but there was a note as of some new fear in her voice. “Has aught befallen him? Have the Saxons come?”

“All is well in Wareham yet,” I answered. “Now we will take you to your father. But we are strangers, as you may see.”

Then I called to Kolgrim, who was listening open eyed to all this, and backed away from the door a little.

“What is this madness, master?” he whispered hoarsely.

“No madness at all. Ten minutes’ ride to Wareham with the maiden, give her to the fisherman to take to her friends, and then ride away that is all. Then we shall be in Poole long before any look for us, for we are in luck’s way.”

Kolgrim laughed.

“Strange dangers must I run with you, master; but that is what one might look for with Ranald of the Sword.”

Then I got off the horse, which was very strong and seemed quiet, and went to the maiden again.

“It will be best for you to come with us, lady,” I said “we will see you safely to Wareham.”

The light fell on my arms now, and they were splendid enough, being Harald Fairhair’s gift, which I had put on for the fight, seeing that the men loved to see their king go bravely, and being, moreover, nowise loth to do so myself. She seemed to take heart for she was well nigh weeping now when she saw that I was not some wandering soldier of the great host.

“My horses, two of them should be here,” she said. “I bade the thralls leave them when they fled.”

So she thought not that we had loosed them, and did not know her own in the moonlight. Maybe she had no knowledge as to which of many had been left, and I was glad of that, for so her fear was less.

“You must ride with us,” I said, “and I would ask you to come quickly; even now the host is leaving Wareham.”

“Ay, is that so? Then my father is busy,” she said, and then she faltered a little, and looked at me questioningly. “I cannot go without my nurse, and she is very sick. I think she sleeps now. Men feared her sickness so that we brought her here from the town. But indeed there is nought to fear; there is no fever or aught that another might take from her.”

Then I grew fairly anxious, for this was more than I had looked for. I knew that it was likely that she would soon be missed and sought for; yet I could not think of leaving her to that chance, with the bridge broken moreover.

I gave the bridle to Kolgrim then to hold.

“Let me see your nurse,” I said gently; “I have some skill in these troubles.”

She led me into the house without a word. All the lower story was in one great room, with a hearth and bright fire thereon in the centre. Beyond that was a low bed, to which the maiden went. A very old woman, happed in furs and heavy blankets, lay on it, and it needed but one look to tell me that she needed no care but the last. Past need of flight was she, for she was dead, though so peacefully that her watcher had not known it.

“The sleep is good, is it not?” the maiden said, looking anxiously into my face.

“It is good, lady,” I answered, taking off my helm. “It is the best sleep of all the sleep that heals all things.”

The maiden looked once at the quiet face, and once more at me, with wide eyes, and then she knew what I meant, and turned quickly from me and wept silently.

I stood beside her, not daring to speak, and yet longing to be on the road. And so still were we that Kolgrim got off his horse and came to the door and called me, though not loudly.

I stepped back to him.

“Come again in a few minutes and say one word ’Saxons’” I whispered, “then we shall go.”

He nodded and drew back. I think the maiden had not heard me move, for she was bent over the bed and what lay thereon. It seemed very long to me before I heard my comrade at the door.

“Saxons, master!” he said loudly.

“Say you so?” I answered, and then I touched the maiden’s arm gently.

“Lady, we must go quickly,” I said. “The dame is past all help of ours, and none can harm her. Come, I pray you.”

She stood up then, still looking away from me, and I drew the covering over the still face she gazed at.

“You must leave her, and I know these Saxons will not wrong the dead,” said I gently. “Your father will miss you.”

“I am keeping you also in danger,” she answered bravely. “I will come.”

“Loth to go am I,” she said, as she gathered her wrappings to her and made ready very quickly, “for it seems hard. But hard things come to many in time of war.”

After that she ceased weeping, and was, as I thought, very brave in this trouble, which was indeed great to her. And when she was clad in outdoor gear, she bent once more over the bed as in farewell, while I turned away to Kolgrim and made ready the horses. Then she came, and mounted behind me on a skin that I had taken from a chair before the hearth.

Then we were away, and I was very glad. The good horse made nothing of the burden, and we went quickly. Many a time had I ridden double, with the rough grip of some mail-shirted warrior round my waist, as we hurried back to the ships after a foray; but this was the first time I had had charge of a lady, and it was in a strange time and way enough. I do not know if it was in the hurry of flight, or because they had none, but the horses had no saddles such as were for ladies’ use.

So I did not speak till we were half a mile from the house, and then came a hill, and we walked, because I feared to discomfort my companion. Then I said:

“Lady, we are strangers, and know not to whom we speak nor to whom we must take you.”

There was a touch of surprise in her voice as she answered:

“I am the Lady Thora, Jarl Osmund’s daughter.”

Then I understood how this was the chief to whom the man I spoke with first had bidden me go for orders. It was plain now that he was up and down among the host ordering all things, and deeming his daughter in safety all the while. He had not had time to learn how his cowardly folk had fled and left their mistress, fearing perhaps the sickness of the old dame as much as the Saxon levies.

Now no more was said till we came to the riverside, where the flood tide was roaring through the broken timbers of the bridge. The fisher slept soundly despite the noise of wind and water, and Kolgrim had some trouble in waking him.

“How goes the flight?” I asked him when he came ashore with the boat’s painter in his hand.

“Faith, master, I know not. I have slept well,” he said.

Now by this time it seemed to me that I ought to take the lady into a safe place, and I would go myself rather than leave her to the fisherman, who was rough, and hated the Danes heartily, as I knew. Moreover, I had a new plan in my head which pleased me mightily. Then I thought that if I were to meet any man who suspected me, which was not likely, the Lady Thora would be pass enough for me. So I told Kolgrim to bide here for me, and he said at first that he must be with me. However, I made him stay against his will at last, telling him what I thought.

Then the fisher put us across quickly, and went back to the far side to wait my return.

I asked Thora where I must take her to find the jarl.

“To his house, surely,” she said.

“I do not know the way from here,” I answered; “I fear you must lead me.”

“As you will,” she said, wondering. “It is across the town certainly.”

That was bad for me, perhaps, but I should find that out presently. So we went across the open, and came to the road through the town along which I had been before. It was clearer, though there were yet many people about.

Now when we were in the shadow of the first houses, Thora stopped suddenly and looked hard at me.

“Will you tell me if I am heading you into danger?” she said.

“What danger is possible?” I answered. “There are no Saxons here yet.”

“Not one?” she said meaningly. “I may be wrong it does seem unlikely but I think you do not belong to us. Your speech is not like ours altogether, and your helm is gold encircled, as if you were a king.”

“Lady,” I said, “why should you think that I am not of your people? Let us go on to the jarl.”

“Now I know that you are not. Oh, how shall I thank you for this?”

Then she glanced at my helm again, and drew a sudden little quick breath.

“Is it possible that you are Alfred of Wessex? It were like what they say of him to do as you have done for a friendless maiden.”

Then she caught my hand and held it in both of hers, looking half fearfully at me.

“Lady,” I said, “I am not King Alfred, nor would I be. Come, let us hasten.”

“I will take you no further,” she said then. “Now I am sure that you are of the Northmen that were seen with the Saxons. You are not of us, and I shall lose you your life.”

Then came the quick trot of horses, and I saw a little troop coming down the street, their arms flashing in the streaks of moonlight between the houses.

“I will see you in good hands, Lady Thora,” I answered. “Who are these coming?”

“It is my father,” she said, and drew me back deeper into shadow.

After the horsemen and beside them ran men who bore planks and ropes, and it was plain that the jarl had found out his loss, and hastened to bridge the gap and cross the river.

I saw that I could keep up the pretence no longer.

“Let me walk behind you as your servant,” I said. “If any heed me, I pray you make what tale you can for me.”

“What can I say to you in thanks?” she cried quickly, and letting go my hand which she yet held. “If you are slain, it is my fault. Tell me your name at least.”

“Ranald Vemundsson, a Northman of King Alfred’s,” I said. “Now I am your servant ever.”

Then Thora left my side suddenly, and ran forward to meet the foremost horseman for they were close to us calling aloud to Osmund to stay. And he reined up and leaped from his horse with a cry of joy, and took her in his arms for a moment.

I got my cloak around me, pulling the hood over my helm, and stood in the shadow where I was. I saw the jarl lift his daughter into the saddle, and the whole troop turned to go back. The footmen cast down their burdens where each happened to be, and went quickly after them; and I was turning to go my way also, when a man came riding back towards me.

“Ho, comrade,” he said, “hasten after us. Mind not the things left in the boat. There is supper ere we go.”

I lifted my hand, and he turned his horse and rode away, paying no more heed to me. That was a good tale of things left that Thora had made in case I was seen to be going back to the boat.

Then I waxed light hearted enough, and thought of my other plan. Kolgrim saw me coming, and the boat was ready.

“Have you flint and steel?” I said to the fisher as I got into the boat.

“Ay, master, and tinder moreover, dry in my cap.”

“Well, then, take me to those ships we saw. I have a mind to scare these Danes.”

It was a heavy pull against the sea to where they lay afloat now, though it was not far. I fired all three in the cabins under the fore deck, so that, as their bows were towards the town, the light would not be seen till I was away.

Then we went swiftly back to Kolgrim, and as I mounted and rode off, the blaze flared up behind us, for the tarred timbers burned fiercely in the wind.

“That will tell Odda that the Danes are flying. And maybe it will save Wareham town from fire, for they will think we are on them. So I have spoiled Jarl Osmund’s supper for him.”

Then I minded that this would terrify the Lady Thora maybe, and that put me out of conceit with my doings for a moment. But it was plain that she was brave enough, for there were many things to fray her in the whole of this matter, though perhaps it was because Kolgrim stayed beyond the river that she made so sure that I was a man of King Alfred’s and no friend to the Danes.

So we rode away, pleased enough with the night’s work, and reached Poole in broad daylight, while the gale was slackening. Well pleased was Odda to see me back, and to hear my news.

Then he asked me what I would do next. There seemed to be no more work at sea, and yet he would have me speak with King Alfred and take some reward from him. And I told him that the season grew late, and that I would as soon stay in England for this winter as anywhere.

“What will you do next in the matter of these Danes, however?” was my question.

Then he said:

“I must chase them through the country till they are within the king’s reach. He has the rest pent in Exeter, and there will be trouble if they sail out to join these. I must follow them, therefore, end send men to Alfred to warn him. Then he will know what to do. Now I would ask you to take the ships back into the river Exe and join us there.”

I would do that willingly, and thought that if the wind held fair after the gale ended, I might be there before he joined the king by land. But I should have to wait for a shift to the eastward before sailing.

So Odda brought his men ashore, and marched on Wareham and thence after the Danes, not meaning to fight unless some advantage showed itself, for they were too many, but to keep them from harming the country. And I waited for wind to take me westward.

Then the strange Norsemen left us. They had gained much booty in the Danish ships, for they carried what had been won from the Saxons, and what plunder should be taken was to be their share in due for their services. They were little loss, for they were masterless vikings who might have given trouble at any time if no plunder was to be had, and I was not sorry to see them sail away to join Rolf Ganger in France.

Now these men would have followed me readily, and so I should have been very powerful at sea, or on any shore where I cared to land. But Odda had made me feel so much that I was one in his counsel, and a friend whom he valued and trusted, that I had made this warfare against the Danes my own quarrel, as it were in his company. Already I had a great liking for him, and the more I heard of Alfred the king, the more I wished to see him. At the least, a man who could build ships like these, having every good point of the best I knew, and better than any ever heard of before, was worth speaking with. I thought I knew somewhat of the shipwright’s craft, and one thinks much of the wisdom of the man who is easily one’s master in anything wherein one has pride.

Moreover, Alfred’s men were wont to speak of him with little fear, but as if longing for his praise. And I thought that wonderful, knowing only Harald Fairhair and the dread of him.