“Am I a thief?” she cried. “The brat shall have them in her turn when she grows up. Would you have me give her them now to turn her minx’s head with?”
So the weak man went his way out of the house in sorrow and fell to his affairs. Those that wrought with him that day observed that now he would labour and toil like a man furious, and now would sit and stare like one stupid; for in truth he judged the business would end ill.
For a while there was no more done and no more said. Aud cherished her treasures by herself, and none was the wiser except Finnward. Only the cloak she sometimes wore, for that was hers by the will of the dead wife; but the others she let lie,
because she knew she had them foully, and she feared Finnward somewhat and Thorgunna much.
At last husband and wife were bound to bed one night, and he was the first stripped and got in. “What sheets are these?” he screamed, as his legs touched them, for these were smooth as water, but the sheets of Iceland were like sacking.
“Clean sheets, I suppose,” says Aud, but her hand quavered as she wound her hair.
“Woman!” cried Finnward, “these are the bed-sheets of Thorgunna—these are the sheets she died in! do not lie to me!”
At that Aud turned and looked at him. “Well?” says she, “they have been washed.”
Finnward lay down again in the bed between Thorgunna’s sheets, and groaned; never a word more he said, for now he knew he was a coward and a man dishonoured. Presently his wife came beside him, and they lay still, but neither slept.
It might be twelve in the night when Aud felt Finnward shudder so strong that the bed shook.