There were mail-clad men among that line of fallen, and those, of course, were not Irish.

They, like Dalfin, would wear neither helm nor byrnie.
Slowly the Danes fought their way, uselessly to all seeming, away from the water and hillward.

Without heeding the depth of the lane from the village, though the darts rained on them from its banks, they went on, and we lost sight of the fighting, though the black throng of warriors who could not reach their foe still swarmed between them and the village.

Some of them came back and yelled at us from the shore, and once they seemed as if they were about to launch the two boats which lay on the strand for an attack on us.
We had dropped a small anchor at this time.
Father Phelim saw that and came to me.
"Let me go to the young prince," he said; "I may be of use here.
There will be trouble, unless someone tells the poor folk that these ships are friendly in very deed." So we went to Hakon, and I told him what Phelim thought.
"The good father is right enough," he answered.

"But how is he to get ashore unharmed?
To send a boat would mean that it would be fallen on before it was seen who was in it." "Let me swim," said Phelim stoutly.
"Maybe your tonsure might save you, father," said Hakon; "but I would not risk it.