“Sing me the lady’s song, mammy.”
Then Nanna intoned softly the strangest, wildest little tune. It was like a Gregorian chant, and had but three notes, but to these she gave a marvelous variety. David listened spellbound to the entreating voice:
| “‘Seven long years I served for thee, The glassy hill I clamb for thee, The bloody shirt I wrang for thee, And wilt thou not waken and come to me?’ |
But I’m thinking he never came back to the lady.”
“Oh, yes, he did, mammy,” said Vala, confidently. “Helga Storr told me he came back a fine prince with a gold crown on his head, and the deil went away empty and roaring mad.”
“What is it you are telling about, Nanna?” said David, his face eager and alight with interest.
She rose up then, with Vala in her arms, her eyes shining with her sweet, motherly story-telling. “It is only an old tale, David,” she answered. “I know not who made it up. My mother told it to me, and her mother to her, and so back through years that none can count. Yes, indeed; what little child does not know the story of the big brown bull of Norraway?”
“I never heard of it before,” said David.
“To be sure; your mother did not live to talk to you–poor little lad!”
“Now, then, Nanna, tell it to me for my mother’s sake.” And he sat down on the cricket by her side, and took Vala on his knee; and Nanna laughed, and then, with the little formal importance of the reciter, said: “Well, so it shall be, then. Here beginneth the story of the big brown bull of Norraway and his fight with the deil.” And the old tale fell from her lips full of charm, and David listened with all the delight of a child. And when it had been twice told, Nanna began to talk of the burnt Njal and the Icelandic sagas, and the more so as she saw David was full of strange wonder and delight, and that every word was fresh and enthralling to him.