Now Thorbiorn the Tardy came late one day down to the sand; men were getting ready to go to table, and were washing their hands outside the booths; but when Thorbiorn rode up the lane betwixt the booths, he was greeted, and asked for tidings. He made as if there was nought to tell, "Save that I deem that Asmund, the champion of Biarg, is now dead."
Many men said that there where he went, departed a worthy goodman from the world.
"But what brought it about?" said they.
He answered, "Little went to the death of that champion, for in the chamber smoke was he smothered like a dog; nor is there loss therein, for he was grown a dotard."
"Thou speakest marvellously of such a man," said they, "nor would Grettir like thy words well, if he heard them."
"That must I bear," said Thorbiorn, "and higher must Grettir bear the sword than he did last summer at Ramfirth-neck, if I am to tremble at him."
Now Grettir heard full well what Thorbiorn said, and paid no heed thereto while he let his tale run on; but when he had made an end, then spake Grettir—
"That fate I foretell for thee, Tardy," said he, "that thou wilt not die in chamber smoke, yet may be withal thou wilt not die of eld; but it is strangely done to speak scorn of sackless men."
Thorbiorn said, "I have no will to hold in about these things, and methinks thou didst not bear thyself so briskly[113] when we got thee off that time when the men of Meals beat thee like a neat's head."
Then sang Grettir—