The man on the floor called out to the others with an oath to come and listen. “Give over, you fools, and come and hear. ’Tis a new song—one of Gudda’s best. Ay, Gudda, she can make a song, if she’s not as young as she used to be....” And he came shambling over towards them.
He was a tall fellow, bigger than either of his two companions, still young, with reddish-yellow hair and a pasty face. The two sprang away as he came up.
“Mind your own business, Luse-Grimur!” cried the one nearest. This was a dark man of slender build, known as the Bishop, from a way he had of mimicking the tones of a priest, and repeating fragments of an indecent parody of the marriage service whenever a couple came together. “Keep away, and don’t bring your lice near me.”
“You’ll have my hands nearer than you care for in a minute,” answered Grimur, with a leer. “Go on, Gudda.”
Gudda was known for her talent in making songs. She was a powerfully built woman getting on in years, with a coarse voice in keeping with her coarse face and heavy build. Her skirt reached hardly below her knees, showing a pair of muscular legs; her stockings were of rough material, and clumsily darned. One redeeming feature she had—her large blue eyes. Children feared her until she looked them full in the face, when the glance of her eyes seemed to draw them to her.
She was one of the few women vagabonds in the country, and was known far and wide for her vulgar songs.
Looking towards the door, she caught sight of the stranger, and called to him to come in. Guest the One-eyed limped over to the group.
“God’s peace,” he said as he entered.
“God’s peace with you,” returned the others, somewhat abashed.
Suddenly the youngest of the party stepped forward. This was Jon Gislason, a short, thick-set fellow who had some claim to good repute, being known to work at times, and trusted to carry letters and parcels from place to place. He strode up to the newcomer, and looked him in the face.