“What thinkest thou of the dream?” said Herfrida to a wrinkled old crone who sat on a low stool beside the fire.
The witch-like old creature roused herself a little and said:
“Good luck is in store for the boy.”
“Thanks for that, granny,” said Alric; “canst say what sort o’ good luck it is?”
“No; my knowledge goes no further. It may be good luck in great things, it may be only in small matters; perhaps soon, perhaps a long time hence: I know not.”
Having ventured this very safe and indefinite prophecy, the old woman let her chin drop on her bosom, and recommenced the rocking to and fro which had been interrupted by the question; while Alric laughed, and, taking up a three-pronged spear, said that as he had been disappointed in going to see the fun at the Springs, he would console himself by going and sticking salmon at the foss (waterfall).
“Wilt thou not wait for midday meal?” said Herfrida.
“No, mother; this roll will suffice till night.”
“And then thou wilt come home ravening, and have mara again.”
“Be it so. I’d run the risk of that for the sake of the chance of another glorious battle such as I had last night!”