In a black tide night had risen, submerging the farther windowless end of the great loft, blotting out the sides and corners of this end. Like a raft of light afloat upon a sea of darkness was the bright square which the moon let fall from the window under the eaves; and now and again, like a shipwrecked mariner, the song-maker rose out of the engulfing blackness and stood in the light, reviving himself with the sight of the infinite wind-swept sky. Deeper and deeper into his spirit cut the thongs of the trap that had caught him. Ranging his prison up and down—up and down—his step was the ceaseless hurried tread of a caged tiger. Higher and higher rose the frenzy of impulse to hurl himself against the walls and batter them with hands and feet and head till they or he gave way.
It bent him at last to a thing he scorned, drove him against his will to the door, wrung from him a hoarse appeal.
“Visbur! I cannot meet death like a fox in his earth! Let me fight my way out against your sword. It will come to the same in the end!”
At first it was only the clang of a spear on the landing outside that answered, so slow was the old guard’s voice of irony.
“Why do you talk of dying, Rolf’s son? Surely you heard the Jarl say that you are only held here to appease the lawmen who want your punishment for challenging Olaf.”
Upon the cross-bar of the door, Randvar’s hand clinched. He had forgotten that the Jarl would cloak his purpose in that excuse. After a moment Visbur spoke again, this time with biting contempt:
“You need not think, however, that I put more belief than you do in that reason. A witless thing would Helvin’s justice be, to forgive you two attacks upon his life and then imprison you only for challenging your foe or loosing a worthless cub. Likely he is afraid to take open vengeance because so many people are fooled by you as to stand your friends; and therefore—even to me—he makes this poor excuse, and adds an order that no others of his household shall even know that you are here, but believe that it is still Eric that I hold prisoner. He might make himself easy that no guardsman who saw you as you stood over your chief’s wounded body, with a bloody sword in your grip, would lift a finger to save you from torture.”
The song-maker’s voice sounded strange to himself as it came out of the darkness in which he stood: “Only grant me to die a man’s death! You can say that you looked in to see how it went with me, and I tried to force my way out, and you slew me. Only that, as you were Rolf’s friend!”
The force with which Visbur’s spear came down upon the landing made up for the low key in which he was obliged to pitch his voice.
“Do you know how I could find it in my heart to behave because I was Rolf’s friend? Because you have stained an honorable name with traitor’s deeds, I could see you hanged like a dog. Never make so bold as to speak my name again.” Suddenly his feet went thundering down the steps, and his spear could be heard striking against the side of the house as he took up a new post below.