“My knight, avoid this town, for Ulf, the king, is here, and has commanded that no stranger enter it.”
“Is Ulf here?” inquired Sigurd. “They told me he was at Niflheim.”
The man looked strangely at him.
“My lord,” said he, “you know what only a few know. Ulf is to be at Niflheim.”
“When?” demanded Sigurd.
“This night,” said the man.
Sigurd answered nothing, but walked on quickly. The man, seeing that he was determined to enter the town, followed cautiously and at a distance, waiting to see what might happen.
It was evening as Sigurd entered Jockjen. The little town, overshadowed by its grim fortress, was astir with unwonted bustle. For the king’s marriage on the morrow had brought together many of the country people, who, though they loved not Ulf, loved a pageant, and a holiday to see it in. And besides them many soldiers were there who talked mysteriously at street corners, and seemed to have other business than merry-making on hand.
Sigurd passed unheeded through the streets, keeping his face hid in his cloak, and avoiding all points where the crowd seemed large or curious.
He was hastening thus stealthily down a by-street which led towards Niflheim, when he suddenly became aware of a small group of men before him, under the shadow of a high wall, in eager talk.