The old gentleman was soon down on the grass, under the shadow of an outbuilding, the sun being intensely hot, and whiffing his pipe, stopped with my tobacco, while he folded his hands in deep thought.
“Well, really, Lehnsman, I can’t mind anything just on the moment. Landstad and Bugge[13] were both here, and got all my stories and songs.”
“But can’t you remember something about Aasgardsreia?”
After pausing for a minute or two, Solomon said—
“Well, sir, you know it was always about Yule-tide, when we were just laid down in bed, that they came by. They never halted till they came to a house where something was going to happen. They used to stop at the door, and dash their saddles against the wall or roof, making the whole house shake, and the great iron pot rattle again.”
“But do you really believe in it, Solomon?” said I, putting some more tobacco in his pipe.
“When I was a lad I did, but now I don’t think I do. Still there was something very strange about it, wasn’t there, sir? The horses in the stable used to be all of a sweat, as if they heard the noise, and were frightened. They could not have fancied it, whatever we did.”
“But are you certain they did sweat?”
“I believe you; I’ve gone into the stable, and found them as wet as if they had been dragged through the river.”[14]