“Well, dog,” growled the Norseman, angrily tugging at his golden beard, “do you want to be petted like a Saxon girl?”

“I want to be free,” answered the thrall calmly. “I was not born into slavery – that’s why you’ve never broken me. No man ever broke a kern born in the western hills. We are brothers to the eagle.

“Well, I’ve borne your abuse and waited because each time I was minded to take your throat between my fingers and crush out your black heart, the thought came to me that the time was not yet. If I escaped from you I would still be an outlaw. But now that the Gaels are gathering to war upon the foreigners, I see my way clearly enough. King Brian will need all the weapon-men he can muster; it is not likely he will hang me when I come to strike a blow for the clan. The time has come; I will kill you and take that sword – which was once the sword of King Murkertagh – and I will fare forth. I will go in your strongest fishing boat; it is no short voyage from Orkneyar to Erin and the sea is wild with the storms of spring, but better drown in a good effort than die under the lash of a pirate.”

Wolfgar, during this speech, which the thrall had spoken as calmly as though discussing the crops or the weather, had sat gaping in dumbfounded amazement. Now he exclaimed: “You addle-witted fool! Are you yet to be taught I am not a man with whom to jest?”

“Here is no jest,” answered Conn and Wolfgar suddenly read the fixed intent in the thrall’s cold eyes.

“You Irish dog!” roared the Norseman, leaping in frantic haste from his bench. His sword flashed from its scabbard but in the same instant Conn, quick as a leaping tiger, snatched up a log of fire-wood and struck with all the ferocious power of his iron muscles. The crude weapon crushed Wolfgar Snorri’s son’s head like an egg-shell and the master of the steading fell like a slaughtered ox in a pool of his own blood.