Timidly Egwina told the dream. The Danish woman listened, leaning her head on her staff, her eyes never leaving the maiden’s face. When she had finished there was silence for a few moments, and then the wicca raised her head, and her eyes glowed strangely.
“Maiden, no runes have I graven for thee on the bark of elm, nor Scinlaeca (spirits of the departed) have I called from the graves of the dead; but easy is it to read thy rede. Listen! for Skulda hath passed into the soul of her servant, and fast doth thy fate run from her lips. Thy vision portendeth great honors to thee. None greater than thou shall live in the land. Retainers many shall be thine, with honor and riches also. After thee shall thy son come, and he shall be more glorious than thou. All men shall look up to him and bow before him for his greatness and wisdom. Dangers will be thine, many and dire; but the web of thy fate is spun. Heed well; speed well. And forget not the bode of the wicca. Thou shalt truly come to thy glory. Hail to thee! Hail to thee! Gunnehilde hath spoken.”
She arose and bowed thrice before the trembling maiden.
“But what dost thou mean?” inquired the girl when she could command her voice. “What glory is it that shall be mine? I fear that I do not understand.”
“Thou hast no further need of galdra or witchcraft. Bright is the woof of thy fate. The skein of thy life is interwoven with those who are great. No need is there for thee to consult the runes. Ask no more of the wicca. Glorious will be thy last hours.”
Egwina dared ask no more. Gunnehilde brought forth meat and drink and placed it before them.
“Eat and drink,” she said, “ere ye go back to your abode. Busy will ye be from this on, and ye shall both have need of your strength. Many they be who come to your dwelling.”
“Dear heart!” cried Adiva in some anxiety. “Howsomever I can manage with more, I cannot see!”
“Adiva, thou hast not asked me to read the runes for thee, but I have done so. Give greeting to Denewulf, and hail, thrice hail to the stranger whom ye have harbored.”
“Tell me, good wicca,” said the dame, “who is he? Of gentle blood, I dare say, for he hath the port of such. Denewulf hath become wrapped up in him, and Egwina is no better. Tell me of him.”