GUNNAR
Every man who has trod a warship's deck,
And borne a weapon of pride, has a proud heart
And asks not twice for any little thing.
Hallgerd, I'll ask no more from you, no more.
RANNVEIG (tearing off her wimple)
She will not mar her honour of widowhood.
Oh, widows' manes are priceless…. Off, mean wimple—
I am a finished widow, why do you hide me?
Son, son who knew my bosom before hers,
Look down and curse for an unreverend thing
An old bald woman who is no use at last.
These bleachy-threads, these tufts of death's first combing,
And loosening heartstrings twisted up together
Would not make half a bowstring. Son, forgive me….
GUNNAR
A grasping woman's gold upon her head
Is made for hoarding, like all other gold:
A spendthrift woman's gold upon her head
Is made for spending on herself. Let be—
She goes her heart's way, and I go to earth.
(AUNUND'S head rises above the wall near GUNNAR.)
What, are you there?
AUNUND
Yea, Gunnar, we are here.
GUNNAR (thrusting with the bill)
Then bide you there.
(AUNUND'S head sinks; THORGEIR'S rises in the same place.)
How many heads have you?
THORGEIR
But half as many as the feet we grow on.