“To what end should I do that, courtman? It is not for the contented moon to bark at the jealous dog.”
It was not only Thorgrim’s son who drew breath quickly, then; every maiden of the group caught hers with a little scream. The Jarl’s sister rose swiftly, standing erect as a red lily.
“This thing comes ill to pass that you forget me as well as yourselves,” she said.
After a moment, Olaf lowered his glittering eyes and finished his withdrawal; when Brynhild sank again to her place among the mossy roots, and settled herself as one preparing for a treat.
“Sing, I pray you,” she said to the Songsmith.
For him, Olaf ceased to exist. Unslinging his rude harp, he leaned easily against a tree before her and sang her a Skraelling love-song, a song made of murmuring brook-sounds, of the calls of mating birds, of the wild note of the blast in the tree-tops, a song that tuned well with the hush and the haze of the autumn forest. In a silken tangle of interlocked arms, the women made a rapt circle around him; and the Jarl’s sister was drawn forward on her moss-cushion. She freed a long breath when the last note had died away among the leafless branches above them.
“It seems to me,” she said slowly, “that the work which interpreters do between men of different tongues is the work that song-makers do between people of different ranks. When I hear you sing, creatures who have seemed to me no more than beasts become human like myself. If there were enough singers to interpret people to one another, perhaps there would be no strife in the world.”
Pleasure so deepened the color in the Songsmith’s face that he was glad to shake his long hair over it by bowing low; he was saved the necessity of answering for after a little Brynhild spoke again, sinking back in her seat to regard him thoughtfully.
“The first time that ever it happened to me to hear your voice was also in the forest, as you sang the Song of Fridtjof the way you would have liked it to happen. Ever since then I have wondered what kind of ending you gave to it. It seems to me that this would be a good time to sing it, if you are willing that we should get further good from your gift of song.”
“The best time!” cried Yrsa, clapping her hands; while urgent murmurs came from all the rest, from Sigrid, the haughtiest of the matrons, down to the shyest of the maids.