“Courtman! Have you seen someone from the Jarl’s Town?” The girl caught him up and left her broth-stirring eagerly, but her mother motioned her away.
“Go up and get one of his linen shirts out of my chest, and fetch down the ointment,” she ordered her; then to her foster-son: “Bring in the water-pail and pull off those things and sit down here. Some day your carelessness will bring it to pass that you bleed to death, and it will not be a brave end, but a foolish one.”
“None the less is it pleasant to realize what state the French One’s fine clothes must be in,” Randvar chuckled, as he allowed himself to be pushed down on a bench by the fire.
The girl, returning headlong down the ladder-like stairs, repeated her entreaty for news; so while his foster-mother washed his wound, and his foster-sister rolled bandages for him, he related his adventure.
They listened without interruption until he came to the appearance of Brynhild and her following, when both stayed their hands to question him eagerly.
“Was Eric with her?”
“How did he look?”
“What did he say?”
“Did he send us a message?”
The first warm color came into the cheeks of Erna, the woman; her eyes shone hungrily.