The girl nodded her bright head impatiently, then shook it at the thralls who sprang forward from the benches at her approach. Hushing with her hands the rustling of her skirts, she hastened down the hall to the western guest-chamber, and gently pushed open the door.
The song-maker was not sleeping. Instead, he had risen and dressed himself in the garments of grape-purple,—as the sheen on ungathered grapes the precious embroideries were sparkling with every move he made in the flickering torch-light. Under one of the fragrant juniper wall-candles, he stood buckling the last buckle of the tunic. From the task he did not look up as the hinges creaked, but seemed to take for granted that it was Thorgerda returned.
“I beg that you will come in and close the door behind you before you make any fuss,” he said.
She came in and closed the door behind her, without making any fuss; and he went on, his eyes still aiding his fingers.
“While it is altogether unlikely that the Jarl’s sister would raise any objections to my departure, yet because Helvin sent me here it might be that she would think it her duty to make some protests; so I beg of you that you will not say anything to her about my going.”
Again from the fountain of Brynhild’s white throat welled up a sound that was half of laughter, half of weeping.
“I will promise you that,” she answered.
He looked up, then; and from bloodless white, his face went blood-red. After a moment, he made her the most ceremonious salutation at his command.
“I ask you to understand that I mistook you for your stewardess,” he said. “She was with me but a short while ago, when I came back to my wits. It may be you know that I have been out of them these days, or I would have gone before.”
To grope along the walls for the weapon that was missing from his belt, he turned away. She had a strange feeling that his mind was so far from her as scarcely to realize that she was there. She offered the feeble commonplaces she might have offered a stranger.