"Methinks, though, that old Lodbrok is truly a mighty man, if the stories that I have heard of him are true," said Wulnoth. And the robber nodded.
"Ay, a mighty man. I know few more so."
"But death is mightier than Lodbrok the dragon-slayer," cried another man. And the captain answered—
"True. To the old viking, Death, all heads must bow at last, for Death is strongest and last of all."
"Death is strongest of all!" mused Wulnoth. "Then did Wyborga mean that if I would find Guthred and win Edgiva I must be ready to die? If that is so, then I need not travel far, for death may be met with everywhere."
"I warn thee of one thing, Wanderer," said one of the robbers. "If thou goest to Lodbrok, the son of Sigurd, beware of his two sons, for they are merciless as the edge of the sword, and fiercer than the flames in war time. By my beard, I had rather keep beyond their reach—the hug of the bear is gentle compared with the hand grasp of Hungwar or Hubba his brother."
"Though Hungwar and Hubba be terrible as the storm god and fiercer than the fire, yet I go on," said Wulnoth stoutly. "My way must be straight as the birds' road, nor may anything turn me aside."
"Then go on and prosper, thou Wanderer of the stout heart," the masterless men answered, "but we abide in the woods and live our merry life."
So Wulnoth, after that he had eaten and rested and warmed himself at the fire around which the robbers sat, their faces glowing red in the flame light, passed on his way, his sword in hand, ready for any dangers that might meet him on the road.
And so he journeyed day by day until he came to a town, and there the people stared at him and asked—