“Deerskin fellow!” she repeated. “Is it in that manner, Sigrid, that you speak of Freya’s son? However he forgets it himself, it behooves you to remember that he has king’s blood in him.” Arranging her gold-colored draperies about her and settling to formal attention, she finished severely: “Had he no blood at all, a song-maker has the right to courteous treatment. I expect that you will, all of you, leave off chattering and give him the attention due a man of accomplishments.” When she had seen her orders carried out, she fixed her eyes calmly upon the spot where Randvar stood beside the towering gilded harp of the court-skald.
The Songsmith’s heart leaped and tried to strangle him as he met her gaze, yet it was not long that his hands swept aimlessly across the strings. In him had awakened a desire to interpret to these folk of Norse blood the lives of the forest men, whose creed was so like theirs in strong simplicity.
Soon he struck a chord and sang with a voice as untaught as a bird’s, and as full of unconscious ecstasy, the story of the Skraelling chief who gave his life to save his followers from the wrath of their offended god.
Singing, he forgot that he sang among strangers. Listening, they forgot that he told a stranger’s story; as at the deeds of a brother, their minds quickened with understanding. A stillness gathered over the room that lasted even after the song was ended, and was broken only when cries for more rose from every direction.
But it was not their applause that was the crown of his success. It was turning to find little Eric standing beside him—bewildered and ruffled—holding out an arm-ring of golden filigree, saying as one repeating a lesson:
“Starkad’s daughter bids you cover some of the deerskin with this.”
VII
“The tongue is the bane of the head”
—Northern saying.
