“Is that your word?” cried she. “I kiss the hands of ye! If I have not wit enough, I can rid you of my company. Wit is it he seeks?” she cried. “The old broomstick that we buried yesterday had wit for you.”
So she rode on ahead and looked not the road that he was on.
Poor Finnward followed on his horse, but the light of the day was gone out, for his wife was like his life to him. He went six miles and was true to his heart; but the seventh was not half through when he rode up to her.
“Is it to be the goodwife’s pleasure?” she asked.
“Aud, you shall have your way,” says he; “God grant there come no ill of it!”
So she made much of him, and his heart was comforted.
When they came to the house, Aud had the two chests to her own bed-place, and gloated all night on what
she found. Finnward looked on, and trouble darkened his mind.
“Wife,” says he at last, “you will not forget these things belong to Asdis?”
At that she barked upon him like a dog.