“As I have said, Valhalla,” I answered. “And my body shall be there, too.”
“Eating?—drinking?—fighting?”
“And loving,” I added. “We must have our women in heaven, else what is heaven for?”
“I do not like your heaven,” she said. “It is a mad place, a beast place, a place of frost and storm and fury.”
“And your heaven?” I questioned.
“Is always unending summer, with the year at the ripe for the fruits and flowers and growing things.”
I shook my head and growled:
“I do not like your heaven. It is a sad place, a soft place, a place for weaklings and eunuchs and fat, sobbing shadows of men.”
My remarks must have glamoured her mind, for her eyes continued to sparkle, and mine was half a guess that she was leading me on.
“My heaven,” she said, “is the abode of the blest.”