He answered her then, his arms outflung like stones from a volcano’s crest, though his voice only deepened.
“May my tongue wither if ever I ask to call myself your thrall! A bad bargain would that be to throw off a man’s rule to be commanded by a woman! Not though she be as fair as you, and I love her as I love you! I have sworn an oath to Helvin Jarl to stand by him as by a brother, and never shall you egg me on to break it. If your lover’s love is not enough, and you must have his freedom also, seek out a lesser man for your favor; for as God lives, my pride that you have scorned—be it king-born or churl-born—will never stoop to your rule!”
With the last word, the door closed behind him.
XVIII
“But a short while is hand fain of blow”
—Northern saying.
Over field and fallow, through wood and meadow, up hill and down, on—on—on—the song-maker strode, no goal before him, only driving revolt within him.
Whenever road or lane made a turn towards the east, the glaring May sunshine struck him in the face. Fending it off with his bended arm, he conceived a hatred of its stare, of the garish blue sky it fell from, of the bustling sounds it called forth. On all sides they rose in a strident chorus, chattering birds in the hedges, screaming cocks in the barn-yards, racketing children on every green, shrill-laughing women washing clothes at every pond,—even the shouts of distant ploughmen were added by the breeze.
In fitful gusts the warm dry wind went with him like some romping oaf, now rushing ahead down the road to beat up the dust with clumsy glee, now lying in wait around some corner to pounce upon him with snorts of mirth and buffet him and wind his hair across his face. Struggling with it, his fury rose as against some boorish jester. He shouted in its teeth: