“I dare say it might befall a bondmaid to get carried out of herself,” she assented. “Rulers’ daughters learn to rule themselves, and noblewomen take everything coldly.”
He unfolded his arms, then, and began to laugh. “Coldly! It were good had I a shield to show you yourself in as you say that, Starkad’s daughter! Through every fibre of your beauty, from the light in your eyes to the ruddy gold of your hair, runs the color of flame. The red of your lips is the fiery blood of the North that no ice can cool; and every motion of your slim hand kindles fire in the breasts of the men who look on you. Jarl’s sister, when that fire shall break out against your rule, it will blaze as much higher than a bondmaid’s passion as your spirit is stronger than hers. Coldly!” He laughed again, as he stepped back to swing his harp over his shoulder.
It seemed that his laughter pressed her pride hard; she rose suddenly, her hand crushing a mottled eagle-feather she had picked up; but she did not quite lose the composure she had pledged. After a moment she tossed the feather aside, smiling haughtily.
“Behold how you are so bent on a quarrel that you try to make one all by yourself,” she said. “Let us talk about something else. I wish you would tell me whether it is because the Skraellings cannot say the word ‘Norway’ that they call the Town by that queer name of ‘Norumbega’—But, listen! Is it as it seems, that I hear my kinsman calling you?”
Randvar hoped that she did, realizing that his humor made a change of scene advisable. He welcomed the sound of his name shouted peremptorily from the group around the bowlders. A muttered word and a hasty bow, and he was in retreat, trampling savagely every creeping green thing he encountered.
The temper of the group into which he came matched well his own. The three old counsellors were growling like three dogs over a bone; and like a bone picked almost bare of endurance, the Jarl held his rigid place among them. He turned sharply as the song-maker approached, and Randvar was startled to see how in that short time the fleeting expression had become fixed upon him. Fierceness unmistakable it showed now. In the struggle to hold it under, he had bitten his lips bloody.
“Songsmith,” he said, “you know best why you gave me the counsel to fare across the river with but few men, and trust myself unarmed in the Skraelling camp. If any power lies at your tongue-roots, make the reason clear to these Mimir-heads. I have tried until my tongue foams like a goaded horse, but it seems that I do not speak their language.”
Sigvat Smooth-Speech made him a gesture that was half deprecating, half paternal. “There is nothing new in that, lord, that to the ears of age the fancies of youth sound like a forgotten language. To talk of trusting a wild man that he may trust you—Jarl, the Fenrir-wolf will be let loose before good-will come of that!”
“To talk of trusting wild beasts because they have the shape of men!” snorted the adviser who stood beside Sigvat.
And Mord the Grim frowned at the son of Rolf, as he stroked the grizzled beard that clung to his chin like foliage to an oak’s lower branches after its poll is bare.