“It will be some time before I shall be able to run,” he reflected ruefully, and began to realize how exhausted he was now that excitement like a prop had fallen from under him. He shook his knees irritably.
“Troll take a man’s legs, that will go back upon him at such a time as this!” he muttered. “If I do not look out, I shall founder here.... He has had time now to gain the lane.... I wish I knew if the room is really darkening, as it seems, or if it is only a trick of my eyes!” He tried in vain with groping hands to sweep the shadows from before him, then to shake off the heaviness settling on him.
“A grim jest that would be, to be caught within three strides of an unbarred door!” he told himself with an impulse of anger. Again he shook off the heaviness, desperately; summoning all his strength, he rose to his feet.
One step he made, and part of another; then his knees sank under him as under a crushing weight; his body sank until his head rested on the floor,—then it seemed that the floor began to sink! After that, he let the Fates have their way.
XXI
“What must be is sure to happen”
—Northern saying.
Coming back to his senses, the Songsmith lay awhile adjusting his memory.... Once, he had fallen asleep on bloody grass and wakened amid the silken fragrance of the women’s house.... Here was another change.... Cobwebbed rafters and bare walls and heavy air as close as the grave. He snuffed up a resentful breath of it—then forgot to exhale in the suddenly added consciousness that some one was gazing at him. Turning his head, his eyes met gray eyes staring at him from a jungle of blood-colored hair.
On the bench to which the song-maker had been helped the night before, Helvin Jarl was now sitting, his elbows on his knees, his hands dropped between to hold the sword with which he was stirring and prodding the straw of the floor. He laid the flat of the blade against Randvar’s breast as the Songsmith started up, forcing him gently back.