Before Blanid can taste the porridge Thorgerd strikes the bowl from her hand.
Hialti, indignantly, as he reaches to Thorgerd's bowl.
She shall have yours; go you and make us more ...
He is interrupted by a distant wailing which is heard through the storm.
The Voice.
Ohey! Ohey! Ohohey!
Blanid.
Master, I hear one calling in the night.
Hialti, in a subdued voice.
It is the wind across the chimney-slates.
The Voice.
Ohey! Ohohey!
Blanid.
Master, a man is calling in the night.
Hialti.
An owl, storm-beaten, drowns down the long mere.
The Voice, sounding nearer on a gust of wind.
Ohohey! Ohohey!
Blanid.
Master, one lost is helpless in the night.
Thorgerd, gently and with an eager smile.
Ay, lass, good lass; go, lass, and seek for him—
Maybe he sinks amid the marshy reeds;
Bring him to warmth and supper and a bed.
I'll shut the door; the light will only daze you.
Hialti, leaping to the door in front of Blanid, and setting his back to it.
No, no; back, girl, get back. (To Thorgerd.)
You murderess,
You know it is the Crier of the Ford,
Who wakens when the clashing waters rise
And the thick night is choked with level rain.
He is not seen; he was not born; he gathers
His bodiless being from the treacherous tarn.
His aged crying gropes about the storm
To snare the spent wayfarer to the ford,
Or draw some pitiful helper to the ford,
And drown them where the unknown water swirls
And strangle them with long brown water-weed:
He seeks their souls for his old soul to feed on,
Because it has no body to nourish it.
Thorgerd, hastily yet sullenly.
How should I know?
She grips Blanid's shoulder and hurries her to the outhouse.
Get in with you to your straw.
She thrusts her into the outhouse and shuts the door upon her; then she turns to Hialti.
Fool, now I know you love her behind your heart.
Hialti.
I have no mind to waste a half-spent thrall
To prove I love you; and to buy another
Would need more money than eight red-polled stirks.
Thorgerd.
Choose between her and me; if you take her,
I take the land.
Hialti. I love you overmuch
To set you equally against a thrall.
Thorgerd.
What, do I touch you when I touch your fields?
Hialti.
To-morrow I must drive the sold ewes home
And lead more bedding from the bracken-fell
If the storm clears—it is well stacked and dry;
So we must be a-stirring by lantern-light,
Since now you will not have the lass go with me
To milk, but go yourself although three cows
Will not let down their milk to you at all,
You drag their teats so: waking-time comes soon—
Best get to bed.
Thorgerd.
And leave you to go to your straw's wench?
Hialti, taking a rushlight in his hand.
Here are enough of your unfaithful words;
I'll alter this to-morrow.
Thorgerd. Ay, to-morrow.
Hialti enters the sleeping-chamber; after watching the door close upon him, Thorgerd, her hands clenched and her arms rigid, swiftly steps half way toward the outhouse; then, suddenly relaxing into a pause and smiling with tight lips as she shakes her head slightly and sharply, she turns to the table again, doffs her coif and draws her hair down, blows out the remaining rushlight, and follows Hialti into the sleeping-chamber.
Henceforth the cottage is only lit by the ever-dying fire. A long, empty silence ensues, broken only by the tumult of the storm and the tinkle of the sinking embers.