ment and some ransom get the captives without a combat.”
“That will I try,” answered Olaf heartily, and waited until the ships were side by side.
Meanwhile the priests were looking sadly at the captives. “Father Reachta,” said the youngest of the four, to the venerable priest beside him, “canst thou discern yon poor captives? Something tells me they are of our own land.”
The old priest looked again. “Father Tuathal,” he said, “thy young eyes can read clearer than mine. Perhaps the poor captives are from our own land. The Danes have many a time torn the young and tender from the parent roof in Ireland.”
Here Father Breasal, another young priest, spoke. “He is right, Father Reachta, I believe, but do thou, Father Meilge, with thy clear eyes that see so many truths, help us to distinguish yon poor slaves. Dost thou think they are from the Irish coast?”
The handsome, scholarly monk, thus addressed, looking strangely out of place on a viking ship, turned his luminous dark eyes to the Danish vessel. “Too true,” he said; “they are indeed poor children of Ireland. And yon gentle maiden,—it is a sad plight for one of such tender years.”
Thorgills was listening eagerly. Olaf had gone to the prow of the ship, and was signalling the Danish captain.
“What dost thou want?” asked the gruff voice of
