Suddenly a shrill angry voice was heard issuing from one of the smaller huts near the lake. It was Freydissa storming at poor Bertha. There was an occasional bass growl intermingled with it. That was Thorward remonstrating.
“Poor Bertha,” said Karlsefin to Biarne, who was standing beside him at the time, “she has a hard mistress.”
“Poor Thorward,” said Biarne, “he has a tough wife.”
“Thorward will cure or kill her,” rejoined Karlsefin, with a laugh. “He is a long-suffering man, and very tender to women withal, but he is not made of butter.”
Biarne shook his head. He evidently had not much opinion of Thorward’s resolution when opposed by the will and passion of such a termagant as Freydissa.
“How much better ’twould have been,” said he, “if Thorward had married her maid—the sweet little fair-haired blue-eyed Bertha.”
“Why, Biarne, methinks that thou art somewhat like to try that plan,” said his friend, looking at him in surprise, for he had spoken with much enthusiasm.
“Not I, man,” returned Biarne, with a smile and a shake of the head. “It is long since my heart was buried in Iceland. I am doomed to be an old bachelor now.”
They both listened at this point, for the domestic brawl in the small hut seemed to be waxing furious. Thorward’s voice was not heard so often, but when it did sound there was an unusually stern tone in it, and Freydissa’s became so loud that her words were audible.
“It has been killed, I tell you, Bertha, by sheer carelessness. If you had fed it properly it would have been as well as the others. Don’t say you did your best for it. You didn’t. You know you didn’t. You’re a smooth-faced vixen. You are. Don’t speak. Don’t speak back, I say. Hold your tongue. You killed that kitten by carelessness.”