We sat silent in the lit hall, and the call died away into silence.
“Shame!” cried a woman’s voice; “ye are not men!”
We stirred not even at this reproof from a woman.
“I will go!” cried the voice again, and one of the women who helped in the cooking stood forward with her great ladle held like a sword.
“Ay, and leave the ladle for the men to manage!” cried a second, a bare-armed, laughing woman, ranging herself by the other one, and turning a saucy face on my lord.
“Will ye lend us your swords, stay-at-homes?” called a third from beside the fire.
“We need not your help to shove the ship off the beach,” said a young girl, haughtily, as she swept forward to the others and looked up at my lord from her little height.
There was stillness in the hall, while the three women stood looking up at my lord. Then some of the men got up, and frowning, hesitated, and then said they would go. Six of them. We others sat silent. The women fell laughing and pointing at us, and the lights flared merrily.
The next morning we watched the ship hauled down the beach and put out. And when she passed round the trees going by the shore, we lost her suddenly.
For months we waited—for a year. She did not come back. Did they find the hall lost beyond the waters? Did my lord marry the maiden? Or were they drowned or lost?