Before the building was done, that is to say in the early spring when Thorstein had been now three winters among the red folk, there was once more rumour of war throughout all the north, and the sound of it came even to these wildernesses, so far as they were apart from the dwellings and intercourse of men. For Gartnaidh the giant, being in this respect like Swein Biornson, was a borderer and a dweller on no man’s land, that is to say he had no laws nor kings over him, and was bound to no government of lawmakers. And yet he was akin to other Gaels dwelling up and down these parts: who, though they were at ancient feud with their Welsh neighbours, yet could let sleeping dogs lie when it served their turn, and play at give and take, or even do good work for Owain the king of Cumbria. For since these hardy hunters and fell runners knew the lie of the land better than settled ploughmen or townsfolk, in many ways they were useful, as in guiding the Northmen to Dacor, and in spying upon them often, when little they knew what eyes were gleaming through the green leafage. Add to this that Gartnaidh and his like found the king’s service not unprofitable; and poor folk must live, however proud they be.

So when war was talked of, the news came to their ears somehow, handed on from one to another of the woodlanders, or picked up at market; for there were times when they came in to sell their furs to the Welsh or Anglians at burgs and trading places on the outskirts of the mountains, as at Broughton or Ravenglass, Cartmel or Bowness.

This time it seemed certain that the north was going to rise against the south in good earnest. Constantine and Olaf Cuaran, Owain and the new Dublin king Olaf Guthferthson had made common cause. Says the giant to Thorstein, “Thy folk will be gathering at their meeting-place in the mountains, and that is hard by our meeting-place too. Thither I am going, and if thou hast a mind to see thy father—”

“Say no more,” cried Thorstein: and they made ready for the journey.

In those days, to one who knew the country, the best roads were not always the high-roads, but the tops and ridges of the fells. The valleys were all umbered up with trees, or choked with swamps; and what with wild beasts and what with wild folk, travelling was no child’s play. But in the waste wildernesses of high moorland, on the tall rock-ranges that joined peak to peak like bridges in the air, foe in shape of mankind was hardly to be found. It was rough work over snow in winter and through moss and mire in summer-time, and a stranger would easily be lost and never seen again: but these hunters were at home anywhere between Skiddaw and Blackcomb.

Gartnaidh the giant, with Thorstein and a few of the lads that followed him, were not far on their way, when there was a stir in the woods behind them, and presently through the coppice came a slim running figure, in brogues and tightly knit plaid and deer skin, and a great bush of red hair streaming behind.

“How now, Raineach?” says the giant: “what folly is this? We want no wenches on this journey.”

With that she pouted, and when he bade her turn back, she began to weep, and sat down on a stone to lament. Thorstein was vexed to see her cry, and would have stayed by her to comfort her: for indeed it had been a sore parting but a little while before. Then the giant took him by the elbow and shoved him along the road, telling him not to be a fool, or never a sight of his father would he get.

Well, they went along for a space: and as they climbed one height of the many on that moorland around what we call Beacon tarn, where the lad used to fish with the lass: and while he was thinking that after all they were happy days he was leaving behind: just then, one of them cried out that there was a stir again in the birch boughs on the height they had left: and a red spot flitted over the heather from cover to cover. Gartnaidh bade the man shoot an arrow to scare their follower: and the man shot, but took good care to aim wide.

They pushed on, until they were out of their own grounds, so to say, and nearing the houses of Coniston. For even in those days there was some habitation by the beck that leads down from the copper-mines. They say that even in the time of the Romans mining had been done thereabouts, when the old roads were open, and the country, since fallen into waste, was more populous. The name of the village, which is as much as to say King’s-town, signifies perhaps that the York kings had officers there to take royalty and dues from those mines: as perhaps at Conishead king’s men took toll from the ironworks of Pennington and the traffic by the old road of Furness: all such metal-works paid tax to the king in ancient times. But in the time of our story, whatever ancient doings may have been at Coniston, were already of the past: the people who then remained were but few and rude, the children of fathers who had seen brighter days. Yet were they better off than the fell-folk in the high grounds, of whom scattered families lived here and there in many a spot on the moors.

As the travellers came towards the place, along the brow between Banniside and the lake, there was a shout in the rear, and a scream, which they could not but understand. So they ran back on their traces, and soon saw Raineach fighting and kicking in the grip of a rough fellow, who made off when he saw the big men. It was little use to scold her, and too late to carry her back home. Gartnaidh said no more when she came up with them, and only strode on with his best foot foremost, so that it was all she could do to trot after and keep in sight, for many a weary hour.

From Coniston they slanted up great crags by a narrow pathway until they got to the top of the high waterfall we call the White Lady, because she comes and goes like a wraith. Thence they found their way over the bogs to Wetherlam cove and the head of the great gill that runs down into Yewdale,—Wolfdale the Northmen called it, as it seems by its old name of Ulldale; and a terrible wild place it would have been in those times. Then away they went up and down over the rough fells, until they found lodging for the night in a lone dell Langdale-way, with some kindred fell-folk who had their huts there. The children were right glad to rest their swollen and battered feet on a heather-heap all night, whether asleep or awake, while the men talked loud round the fire.

The morning it was up and away over wilder ground than ever, climbing by the ledges of rock to the bogs that make as it were a thatched roof above the walls of those great mountain houses, whose streets are the dales, and whose gables are the peaks. All day long it was wading work through the mosses, or clambering over the screes, up and down long slopes that seemed in the passing clouds and showers to lead nowhither but into the rain and the mist. In the afternoon they were aware of a great valley beneath them. They had come so to say to the eaves of the house of mountains and yet could not look over, nor see what was going on below. But they were above the dale through which the great Roman road goes, where lies the city of Helvellyn and the lake of Thirlmere and the Northmen’s Law-burg-thwaite.

At the city of Helvellyn, as Gartnaidh reckoned, there would be some force posted to defend the border and the main road to the south, for it would be a likely point of attack. With this point guarded, and the coast road, and the Maiden way that comes through the Westmorland fells, king Owain would be safe, and free to throw his whole power upon York by the great way over the Keel. And it was thought that the king himself might soon be there, to speak about the defences with the people of the place, and with the Northmen whose Althing would soon be held hard by.

But Gartnaidh had no mind to put his daughter in the way of Owain’s soldiers, any more than to leave her in the clutches of the ruffian on Banniside: neither would he give Thorstein the chance of getting away before his time. So he avoided the Welsh burg at Wythburn, the city of which we spoke, and led them down upon a dwelling of his kindred, such as dwelt here along the brink overlooking Thirlmere, on the Benn as we still call it in their language,—the great mountain between Armboth and Thirlmere water-foot.