Across the court-yard came the Jarl’s sister and her following of white-armed maids and graceful pages, and the evening breeze went before her like a herald. With sleepy sighs, the budding fruit-trees dreaming in the starlight bestirred themselves to offer tribute of fragrant bloom, made the earth fair for her treading, made the air sweet for her breathing. Floating down upon her bosom, the roseate petals blended with it as flower with flower. Drifting down upon her hair, they lay like unmelting flakes amid its golden fire. So wondrous lovely was she thus crowned that Yrsa walking beside her had an impulse of admiring affection, and slipped a caressing hand into hers.
Immediately after she would have withdrawn it, making excuses for her boldness, but that Brynhild’s gray eyes came down to her as serene as the starlit sky. Gathering up the timid fingers with her own firm supple ones, she drew her foster-sister’s arm around her; and so they moved on together to the women’s house that awaited with open doors their return from evening service. Gaining the light that came through the dusk to meet them like a golden welcome, the Jarl’s sister paused to look back and raise a warning finger.
“Keep in mind our guest,” she cautioned.
Soft as the rippling chat and laughter had been, it smoothed out now to waveless quiet. With only the swish of trailing silk, the rustle of feet through grass, they went up the bright path to the door.
On the threshold they were met by the stately old stewardess, who was mother to Yrsa and the foster-mother of Brynhild the Proud. Cheerily the Jarl’s sister accosted her:
“If he has changed by so much as the set of an eyelash, good Thorgerda, I expect you to tell me without delay,” she said. Then she took her hand from Yrsa’s, took a swift step forward, as from the lace lappings of the head-dress the old face looked towards her somewhat soberly. “It is not possible that you are going to tell me that his heart-wound is serious after all! That the saints would let it be so, when I have been daily to their altars praising them for the miracle by which they saved him!”
“By no means,” Thorgerda answered hastily. “Just after you left, I looked at it again; and it has knit together as by a miracle during the sleep which has held him so strangely. But as I was putting the bandages back, he came out of his sleep.”
“Ah!” Brynhild said softly, and put an uncertain finger to her lips. “What was his mood?” she asked at last.
“I wish I were altogether sure, foster-daughter. If I tell the truth of him, I must say that there is a squareness to his mouth which I—But you shall hear—But, first, be pleased to come in and take your seat. It is not fitting—”