From the gathering circle of foresters came back a sound like an ominous echo; and the murmur was taken up in the wood beyond, till it rose like the roar of the wind in the trees. But all at once Visbur made a long stride forward and held out his huge hand.
“Never look at me with that look on your face comrade!” he said gruffly. “I know now that you were no traitor to Starkad’s son, and Rolf’s self would not be gladder of the knowledge. Take now my hand as a token that you will accept atonement from me.”
The Songsmith and his young wife spoke in one breath: “You know—?”
“From him who alone had the right to tell it,” Visbur answered briefly. “While the day was still young, we came upon Starkad’s son in the forest near the Town, with Olaf’s blood yet on him. Because his wits were not in him, he mistook us for Shapes risen to torment him, and stood and shouted his secret at us in defiance. And then his strength went from him; and he fell down to the earth; and death came to him where he fell.”
“And it was on your name that he called as he died,” the gentle voice of the Shepherd Priest sounded amid the stillness that had spread. “Because I was the first to reach him and raise his head to my breast, it is likely he thought it was you, for he spoke your name in a tone of love; and that was his last breath.”
No longer was there steadiness in Randvar’s voice as he tried to speak. Of a sudden it broke, and he turned away from the eyes upon him and stood with his face in the shadow, his clinching hand still holding his young wife to his side. What she said softly in his ear—whether of grief for her kin or gratitude for her loved one’s safety—none could hear.
Then it was Mord the Grim who spoke with ceremony: “Now the end of it is that Helvin Jarl has been five days dead and five days buried, and we have come to offer the rule to you, Starkad’s daughter, who are the next of kin—” He lifted his hand as, turning, Starkad’s daughter would have interrupted him, indignantly. “To you and to your husband, who is of all men most beloved by the folk of the new lands. To you two together.”
What Brynhild cried out, as she stretched her hands towards them, could not be heard for the acclamations that burst from the listening foresters. Then, drowning even that, rose the clangor of the guardsmen’s shields as they pounded on them with their swords.
Once more the Songsmith’s lips became unsteady, so that he dared not trust his voice to them; but presently he turned and made the shouting throng a gesture of acceptance of their honor and of thankfulness for their love, and all understood him.
THE END