And there Freydissa stood—up to the arm-pits in mud and salmon!
Whether she had fallen in or been pushed in no one could tell, but unquestionably she was in, having gone in, too, head-foremost, so that, although she had struggled right-end up she reappeared coated with mud to an extent that might have suggested a sculptor’s clay model—had sculptors been known to the Norsemen of those days.
There was an irresistible roar of laughter at first, and then loud expressions of condolence and sympathy, while a dozen strong, but wet and dirty, hands were stretched forth to the rescue.
“Here, lay hold of my hand, poor thing,” cried Krake; “there, now, don’t cry; it would only be wasting tears, with so much water on your face already.”
If anything could have made Freydissa cry it would have been that remark, for it implied that she was inclined to weep, while nothing was further from her thoughts at that time.
She did, however, grasp Krake’s hand, but instead of aiding herself by it to get out of the hole, she gave it such a vigorous and hearty pull that Krake went souse into the mud beside her. Before he could recover himself Freydissa had put her knee on his body, and, using him as a foot-rest, thrust him deeper down as she stepped out.
The delight with which this was hailed is beyond description, and many a year passed after that before men grew tired of twitting Krake about the pleasant mud-bath that had been given him by Freydissa on the occasion of the celebrated take of salmon at Little River in Vinland.