“‘Surely this youth will not serve our ends,’ said I, ‘for he weeps.’
“The old woman smiled. ‘Past tears are present strength,’ said she.
“‘Oh!’ said my brother, ‘I saw you weep once over an eagle you shot.’
“‘That was because it was so like you, brother,’ I replied; ‘but indeed, this youth may have better cause for tears than that—I was wrong.’
“‘Wait a while,’ said the woman; ‘if I mistake not, he will make you weep till your tears are dry for ever. Tears are the only cure for weeping. And you may have need of the cure, before you go forth to fight the giants. You must wait for him, in your tower, till he comes.’
“Now if you will join us, we will soon teach you to make your armour; and we will fight together, and work together, and love each other as never three loved before. And you will sing to us, will you not?”
“That I will, when I can,” I answered; “but it is only at times that the power of song comes upon me. For that I must wait; but I have a feeling that if I work well, song will not be far off to enliven the labour.”
This was all the compact made: the brothers required nothing more, and I did not think of giving anything more. I rose, and threw off my upper garments.
“I know the uses of the sword,” I said. “I am ashamed of my white hands beside yours so nobly soiled and hard; but that shame will soon be wiped away.”
“No, no; we will not work to-day. Rest is as needful as toil. Bring the wine, brother; it is your turn to serve to-day.”