‘My death, and yours, and your mother’s,’ answered Njal.
‘Shall I die also?’ he asked; but Njal shook his head.
‘Good fortune will ever be with you!’ he answered, and turned away and wept.
Now all men knew that at the next Thing a suit would be brought for the slaying of Hauskuld, and Njal and his sons made ready to fare to it, and to hear the award which should be given. But first sundry of Njal’s friends came to see him and offered to stand by him, and to set up their tents beside his, and among them were Gizur the white and Asgrim. And at the Thing an award was made, but was made void by a quarrel between Flosi, the friend of Hauskuld the slain, and Skarphedinn, and Njal and his sons returned home, and Njal’s heart was heavy.
‘Are you riding back to your wife?’ asked he of Kari, his son-in-law; and Kari made answer, ‘Whatever happens to you, happens to me!’ and they all stayed at Bergthorasknoll.
In the house dwelt an old, old woman, so old that she had nursed Bergthora, Njal’s wife, and she was wise and could see into the future. Njal’s sons laughed at her warnings, and took no heed to them, but for all that they knew well that it was often the truth she told them. One day Skarphedinn was standing outside the door, and the old woman came out with a stick in her hand, and she passed silently by him, and walked up the path to where a pile of dried shrubs lay above the house.
‘May a curse be upon you!’ she cried, shaking her stick over it; and Skarphedinn, who had followed after her, asked wherefore she was wroth with the pile.
‘Because with the fire lighted from this pile there will be a great burning,’ said she. ‘And Njal and his sons will be burnt, and Bergthora, my foster-child. So carry it away and scatter it in the water, or else set fire to it before your enemies can get here!’
‘What is the use of doing anything?’ answered Skarphedinn, ‘for if it is written that we should be burned, our foes will find some other fuel, though I were to scatter this stack to the four winds;’ and he went away laughing.
All through the summer the old nurse was ever begging Njal to do away with the stack of vetch, but the harvest was plentiful in the pastures and the men never came home save to sleep.