So they pushed out to sea, and hard weather they tholed. Once on a time when the waves broke over the deck and drenched them all, Cormac made this song:—
(57)
“O the Tinker's a lout and a lubber,
And the life of a sailor he dares not,
When the snow-crested surges caress us
And sweep us away with their kisses,
He bides in a berth that is warmer,
Embraced in the arms of his lady;
And lightly she lulls him to slumber,
—But long she has reft me of rest!”
They had a very rough voyage, but landed at last in Midfiord, and anchored off shore. Looking landward they beheld where a lady was riding by; and Cormac knew at once that it was Steingerd. He bade his men launch a boat, and rowed ashore. He went quickly from the boat, and got a horse, and rode to meet her. When they met, he leapt from horseback and helped her to alight, making a seat for her beside him on the ground.
Their horses wandered away: the day passed on, and it began to grow dark. At last Steingerd said, “It is time to look for our horses.”
Little search would be needed, said Cormac; but when he looked about, they were nowhere in sight. As it happened, they were hidden in a gill not far from where the two were sitting.
So, as night was hard at hand, they set out to walk, and came to a little farm, where they were taken in and treated well, even as they needed. That night they slept each on either side of the carven wainscot that parted bed from bed: and Cormac made this song:—
(58)
“We rest, O my beauty, my brightest,
But a barrier lies ever between us.
So fierce are the fates and so mighty
—I feel it—that rule to their rede.
Ah, nearer I would be, and nigher,
Till nought should be left to dispart us,
—The wielder of Skofnung the wonder,
And the wearer of sheen from the deep.”
“It was better thus,” said Steingerd: but he sang:—
(59)
“We have slept 'neath one roof-tree—slept softly,
O sweet one, O queen of the mead-horn,
O glory of sea-dazzle gleaming,
These grim hours,—these five nights, I count them.
And here in the kettle-prow cabined
While the crow's day drags on in the darkness,
How loathly me seems to be lying,
How lonely,—so near and so far!”
“That,” said she, “is all over and done with; name it no more.” But he sang:—