‘Not the poor girls?’ said Agilmund, who took for granted that Wulf would wish to celebrate the Amal’s funeral in true Gothic fashion by a slaughter of slaves.
‘No.... One of them I saw behave this very afternoon worthy of a Vala. And they, too—they may make heroes’ wives after all, yet .... Women are better than I fancied, even the worst of them. No. Go down, heroes, and throw the gates open; and call in the Greek hounds to the funeral supper of a son of Odin.’
‘Throw the gates open?’
‘Yes. Goderic, take a dozen men, and be ready in the east hall. Agilmund, go with a dozen to the west side of the court—there in the kitchen; and wait till you hear my war-cry. Smid and the rest of you, come with me through the stables close to the gate—as silent as Hela.’
And they went down—to meet, full on the stairs below, old Miriam.
Breathless and exhausted by her exertion, she had fallen heavily before Philammon’s strong arm; and lying half stunned for a while, recovered just in time to meet her doom.
She knew that it was come, and faced it like herself.
‘Take the witch!’ said Wulf slowly—‘Take the corrupter of heroes—the cause of all our sorrows!’
Miriam looked at him with a quiet smile.
‘The witch is accustomed long ago to hear fools lay on her the consequences of their own lust and laziness.’