“We must take this, comrade, as it is. It was a jest,—and it was the truth. You could no more hold back than I could stay you, and I would not keep you if I could. All that man can give to man, you have given me,—I ask not woman’s share besides. Go, and good go with you for your love!”
Down in the shadow, their hands met and clasped; then the song-maker turned and once more went forward towards the dark mass. After some delay the broad doors opened before him, and—as had been foretold—did not close after him.
Through the ruddy gap, the Jarl’s gaze followed his song-maker into a fire-bright hall whose wall-benches were aflower with women in kirtles of deep red and dull yellow and corn-flower blue. Like green beads from a broken necklace, pages were scattered over the floor playing a game of ball; and dodging between them and stumbling over them, swarthy thrall-men were bringing in tables for the evening meal. A fancy came to amuse the Jarl that it was like the arrival of a war-arrow in a peace-camp when his messenger stepped into the ring of the firelight. From chess-board and bead-stringing and gossip, the women turned with smothered exclamations; while the purple-robed girl in the high-seat sat like one stricken motionless, her hand still holding out the silk ball she was winding from the skein which a page held apart before her.
Splendid in raiment now was the son of Freya, the king-born. As sun-burnished waves shone his newly trimmed hair, and his garments were all of velvet banded with fine sable, and sable lined the cloak that fell from his mighty shoulders. Regarding him, another fancy brought a smile to the Jarl.
“He put on fine clothes as a man puts on armor, and like a flight of arrows are the glances shot against him. I would lay down my life on it that he would sooner go against arrows.”
If that were so, still no one could tell from the song-maker’s bearing whether desperation or confidence ruled in his mind. Passing between the fires, he came before the footstool of Brynhild the Proud. When he had made salute, he stood waiting in the attitude of courtly submission, one hand on his hilt and one on his breast, an attitude that took on new meaning because proud strength spoke from every line of his virile face and his sinewy body.
Motionless, she sat gazing at him, whether in speechless displeasure or speechless amazement, no one could tell from her expression. Signing the petrified page to withdraw out of ear-shot, she said at last:
“This behavior seems to me so bold that I have never seen any act so bold as this. What is your errand with me?”
“I will speak it aloud and not mutter about it,” he answered. “I have two. The first, which I care the most about, is to reconcile myself to you. The other is a message from the Jarl, which I hold as a shield against an unfavorable reception.”
She drew back to the extreme limit of her high-seat, her face set like a cameo against the dark wood. The best she could do was to observe presently, with haughtiness: