Now as he began

  To ask them news of this and that good man,

  And how he fared, Thurid with anxious face

  Came up to him, and drew him from the place,

  Saying, “Come, talk with me apart awhile!”

  He followed after with a puzzled smile,

  Yet his heart felt as something ill drew near.

  So, when they came where none their speech might hear,

  Thurid turned round about on him, and said,

  “Brother, amidst thy speech, I shook with dread

  Lest .Gudrun’s name from out thy lips should burst;

  How was it then thou spak’st not of her first?”

  Then Kiartan, trembling, said, “Indeed, I thought

  That news of ill unasked would soon be brought —

  Sister, what ails thee then — is my love dead?”

  “Nay,” Thurid stammered, “she is well — and wed.”

  “What!” cried out Kiartan, “and the Peacock’s house?

  I used to deem my brothers valorous,

  My father a great man — and Bodli’s sword,

  Where was it midst this shame?”

  Scarce was the word

  Out of his lips, ere, looking on her face,

  He turned and staggered wildly from the place,

  Crying aloud, “O blind, O blind, O blind!

  Where is the world I used to deem so kind,

  So loving to me? O Gudrun, Gudrun,

  Here I come back with all the honour won

  We talked of, that thou saidst thou knewest well

  Was but for thee — to whom then shall I tell

  The tale of that well-doing? And thou, friend,

  How might I deem that aught but death should end

  Our love together? yea, and even now,

  How shall I learn to hate thee, friend, though thou

  Art changed into a shadow and a lie?

  O ill day of my birth, ill earth and sky,

  Why was I then bemocked with days of bliss

  If still the ending of them must be this?

  O wretch, that once wast happy, days a-gone,

  Before thou wert so wretched and alone,

  How on unhappy faces wouldst thou look

  And scarce with scorn and ruth their sorrow brook!

  Now then at last thou knowest of the earth,

  And why the elders look askance on mirth.”

  Some paces had he gone from where she stood,

  Gazing in terror on his hapless mood,

  And now she called his name; he turned about,

  And far away he heard the shipmen’s shout

  And beat of the sea, and from the down there came

  The bleat of ewes; and all these, and his name,

  And the sights too, the green down ‘neath the sun,

  The white strand and the far-off hill-sides dun,

  And white birds wheeling, well-known things did seem,

  But pictures now or figures in a dream,

  With all their meaning lost. Yet therewithal

  On his vexed spirit did the new thought fall

  How weak and helpless and alone he was.

  Then gently to his sister did he pass,

  And spake:

  “Now is the world clean changed for me

  In this last minute, yet indeed I see

  That still will it go on for all my pain;

  Come then, my sister, let us back again;

  I must meet folk, and face the life beyond,

  And, as I may, walk ‘neath the dreadful bond

  Of ugly pain — such men our fathers were,

  Not lightly bowed by any weight of care.”

  She smiled upon him kindly, and they went

  And found folk gathered in the biggest tent,

  And busied o’er the wares, and gay enow

  In outward seeming; though ye well may know

  Folk dreaded much for all the country’s sake

  In what wise Kiartan this ill news would take.

  Now Kálf had brought the gayest things to show

  The women-folk, and by a bale knelt now

  That Kiartan knew right well, and close by him

  Sat Refna, with her dainty hand and slim

  Laid on a broidered bag, her fair head crowned

  With that rich coif thereafter so renowned

  In Northland story. As he entered there

  She raised to him her deep grey eyes, and fair

  Half-opened mouth, and blushed blood-red therewith;

  And inwardly indeed did Kiartan writhe

  With bitter anguish as his eyes did meet

  Her bright-flushed gentle face so pure and sweet;

  And he thenceforth to have no lot or part

  In such fair things; yet struggling with his heart

  He smiled upon her kindly. Pale she grew

  When the flush passed, as though in sooth she knew

  What sickness ailed him.

  “Be not wroth,” she said,

  “That I have got this queen’s gift on my head,

  I bade them do it not.”

  Then wearily

  He answered: “Surely it beseemeth thee

  Right well, and they who set it there did right.

  Rich were the man who owned the maiden bright,

  And the bright coif together!”

  As he spake

  Wandered his eyes; so sore his heart did ache

  That not for long those matters might he note;

  Yet a glad flush again dyed face and throat

  Of Refna, and she said, “So great and famed,

  So fair and kind! where shall the maid be named

  To say no to thine asking?”

  Once again

  All pale she grew, for stung by sudden pain

  Kiartan turned round upon the shrinking maid,

  And, laughing wildly, with a scowl he said:

  “All women are alike to me — all good —

  All blessings on this fair earth by the rood!”

  Then silence fell on all, yet he began

  Within awhile to talk to maid and man

  Mildly as he was wont, and through the days

  That they abode together in that place

  Seemed little changed; and so his father thought

  When he to him at last his greeting brought,

  And bade him home to Herdholt. So they rode,

  Talking of many things, to his abode,

  Nor naming Gudrun aught. Thus Kiartan came

  Back to his father’s house, grown great of fame,

  And tidingless a while day passed by day

  What hearts soe’er ‘neath sorrow’s millstone lay.

  Tidings brought to Bathstead of Kiartan’s coming back.

  Yes, there the hills stood, there Lax-river ran

  Down to the sea; still thrall and serving-man

  Came home from fold and hayfield to the hall,

  And still did Olaf’s cheery deep voice call

  Over the mead horns; danced the fiddle-bow,

  And twanged the harp-strings, and still sweet enow

  Were measured words, as someone skilled in song

  Told olden tales of war, and love, and wrong.

  — And Bodli’s face from hall and board was gone,

  And Gudrun’s arms were round him, as alone

  They lay, all unrebuked that hour, unless

  The dawn, that glimmered on the wretchedness

  Of Kiartan’s lone and sleepless night, should creep

  Cold-footed o’er their well-contented sleep,

  And whisper, ‘Sleep on, lapse of time is here

  Death’s brother, and the very Death is near!’

  Such thoughts might haunt the poor deserted man,

  When through the sky dawn’s hopeless shiver ran,

  And bitterness grew in him, as the day,

  Cleared of fantastic half-dreams, cold and grey,

  Was bared before him. Yet I deem, indeed,

  That they no less of pity had good need.

  Yea, had his eyes beheld that past high-tide

  At Bathstead, where sat Gudrun as a bride

  By Bodli Thorleikson! Her face of yore,

  So swift to change, as changing thoughts passed o’er

  Her eager heart, set now into a smile

  That scarce the fools of mankind might beguile

  To deeming her as happy: his, once calm

  With dreamy happiness, that would embalm

  Into sweet memory things of yesterday,

  And show him pictures of things far away,

  Now drawn, and fierce, and anxious, still prepared

  It seemed, to meet the worst his worn heart feared.

  A dismal wedding! every ear at strain

  Some sign of things that were to be to gain;

  A guard on every tongue lest some old name

  Should set the poisoned smouldering pile aflame.

  Silent the fierce dull sons of Oswif drank,

  And Olaf back into his high seat shrank,

  And seemed aged wearily, the while his sons

  Glanced doubtfully at Bodli; more than once

  Did one of them begin some word to speak,

  And catch his father’s eye, and then must break

  His speech off with a smile not good or kind;

  And in meanwhile the wise would fain be blind

  To all these things, or cover boisterously

  The seeds of ill they could not fail to see.

  But if ‘neath all folk’s eyes things went e’en so,

  How would it be then with the hapless two

  The morrow of that feast? This know I well,

  That upon Bodli the last gate of hell

  Seemed shut at last, and no more like a star

  Far off perchance, yet bright however far,

  Shone hope of better days; yet he lived on,

  And soon indeed, the worst of all being won,

  And gleams of frantic pleasure therewithal,

  A certain quiet on his soul did fall,

  As though he saw the end and waited it.

  But over Gudrun changes wild would flit,

  And sometimes stony would she seem to be;

  And sometimes would she give short ecstasy

  To Bodli with a fit of seeming love;

  And sometimes, as repenting sore thereof,

  Silent the live-long day would sit and stare,

  As though she knew some ghost were drawing near,

  And ere it carne with all the world must break,

  That she might lose no word it chanced to speak.

  So slowly led the changed and weary days

  Unto the gateway of the silent place,

  Where either rest or utter change shall be;

  But on an eve, when summer peacefully

  Yielded to autumn, as men sat in hall

  Two wandering churles old Oswif forth did call

  Into the porch, and asked for shelter there.

  And since unheeded none might make such prayer,

  Soon ‘mid the boisterous house-carles were they set,

  The ugly turns of fortune to forget

  In mirth and ease, and still with coarse rude jest

  They pleased the folk, and laughed out with the best.

  But while the lower hall of mirth was full

  More than their wont the great folk there were dull;

  Oswif was sunk in thought of other days,

  And Gudrun’s tongue idly some tale did praise

  Her brother Ospak told, the while her heart

  Midst vain recurring hopes was set apart;

  And Bodli looked as though he still did bide

  The coming fate it skilled no more to hide

  From his sore wearied heart: no more there were

  Upon the dais that eve; but when the cheer

  Was over now, old Oswif went his ways,

  But Ospak sat awhile within his place

  Staring at Bodli with a look of scorn;

  For much he grew to hate that face forlorn,

  Bowed down with cares he might not understand.

  At last midst Gudrun’s talk, with either hand

  Stretched out did Ospak yawn, and cried aloud

  Unto the lower table’s merry crowd:

  “Well fare ye, fellows! ye are glad to-night;

  What thing is it that brings you such delight?

  We be not merry here.”

  Then one stepped forth,

  And said: “Sooth, Ospak, but of little worth

  Our talk was; yet these wandering churles are full

  Of meat and drink, and need no rope to pull

  Wild words and gleesome from them.”

  “Bring them here,”

  Said Ospak, “they may mend our doleful cheer.”

  So from the lower end they came, ill clad,

  Houseless, unwashen, yet with faces glad,

  If for a while; yet somewhat timorous, too,

  With such great men as these to have to do,

  Although to fear was drink a noble shield.

  “Well, fellows, what fair tidings are afield?”

  Said Ospak, “and whence come ye?”

  The first man

  Turned leering eyes on Bodli’s visage wan,

  And o’er his face there spread a cunning grin.

  But just as he his first word would begin,

  The other, drunker, and a thought more wise

  Maybe for that, said, screwing up his eyes,

  “Say-all-you-know shall go with clouted head.”

  “Say-nought-at-all is beaten,” Ospak said,

  “If, with his belly full of great men’s meat

  He has no care to make his speeches sweet.”

  “Be not wrath, son of Oswif,” said the first;

  “Now I am full I care not for the worst

  That haps to-night; yet Mistress Gudrun there—”

  “Tush!” said the second, “thou art full of care

  For a man full of drink. Come, let her say

  That as we came so shall we go away,

  And all is soon told.”

  Ospak laughed thereat,

  As sprawling o’er the laden board he sat,

  His cheek close to his cup; but Gudrun turned

  Unto him, pale, although her vexed heart burned

  With fresh desire, and a great agony

  Of hope strove in her.

  “Tell thy tale to me

  And have a gift therefor,” she said: “behold!

  My finger is no better for this gold!

  Draw it off swiftly!”

  Then she reached her hand

  Out to the man, who wondering there did stand

  Beholding it, half sobered by her face;

  Nor durst he touch the ring.

  “Unto this place

  From Burgfirth did we come,” he said, “and there,

  Around a new-beached ship folk held a fair —

  Kálf Asgeirson, men said, the skipper was —

  But others to and fro did I see pass.”

  Still Ospak chuckled, lolling o’er his drink,

  Nor any whit hereat did Gudrun shrink,

  But Bodli rose up, and the hall ‘gan pace,

  As on the last time when in that same place

  Kiartan and he and she together were;

  And on this day of anguish and of fear,

  Well-nigh his weary heart began to deem

  That that past day did but begin a dream

  From which he needs must wake up presently,

  Those lovers in each other’s arms to see,

  To feel himself heart-whole and innocent;

  “Yea, yea, a many people came and went

  About the ship,” he heard the first guest say;

  “Gudmund and Thurid did I see that day,

  And Asgeir and his daughter, and they stood

  About a man, whose kirtle, red as blood,

  Was fine as a king’s raiment.”

  Ospak here

  Put up his left hand slowly to his ear,

  As one who hearkens, smiling therewithal,

  And now there fell a silence on the hall,

  As the man said:

  “I had not seen before

  This fair tall man, who in his sword-belt bore

  A wondrous weapon, gemmed, and wrought with gold;

  Too mean a man I was to be so bold

  As in that place to ask about his name.

  — Yet certes, mistress, to my mind it came,

  That, if tales lied not, this was even he

  Men said should wed a bride across the sea

  And be a king — e’en Kiartan Olafson.”

  He looked about him when his speech was done

  As one who feareth somewhat, but the word

  He last had said, nought new belike had stirred

  In those three hearts; Bodli still paced the floor

  With downcast eyes, that sometimes to the door

  Were lifted; Ospak beat upon the board

  A swift tune with his hand; without a word

  The gold ring from her finger Gudrun drew

  And gave it to the man; and Ospak knew

  A gift of Bodli Thorleikson therein,

  Given when first her promise he did win.

  Yet little wisdom seemed it to those men

  About the dais to abide as then,

  Though one turned o’er his shoulder as he went,

  And saw how Ospak unto Gudrun leant

  And nodded head at Bodli, and meanwhile

  Thrust his forefinger with a mocking smile

  At his own breast; but Gudrun saw him not,

  Though their eyes met, nay, rather scarce had got

  A thought of Bodli in her heart, for still

  ‘Kiartan come back again,’ her soul did fill,

  ‘And I shall see him soon, with what changed eyes!’

  And now did night o’er the world’s miseries

  Draw her dark veil, yet men with stolen light

  Must win from restless day a restless night;

  Then Gudrun ‘gan bestir her, with a smile

  Talking of common things a little while,

  For Bodli to his seat had come again

  And sat him down, though labour spent in vain

  It was to speak to him; dull the night went,

  And there the most of men were well content

  When bed-time came at last. Then one by one

  They left the hall till Bodli sat alone

  Within the high-seat. No thought then he had

  Clear to himself, except that all was bad

 

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