Startled, his eyesight bewildered, the king stumbled. He fell forward, over the tub and into it. His brow struck the rim. In a splash like a wave that breaks on a reef, he went down under his ale.

Drunk, the guests were slow to understand what had happened and pull him out. Nor knew they what to do when he lay sprawled on the floor, breath and heartbeat still, unwinking eyes turned toward the high seat.

XXXIV

That year the weather around Yule was cold and calm. Folk swarmed to the offerings at Haven. The tents and booths of those who did not find housing ringed the holy shaw. By day the fires outside them sent smoke higher than the trees, by night the embers glowed redly up at the stars.

From farthest off, Bralund in Scania, came Eyjolf Lysirsson, which he had never done before at this season. He guessed what sorrow must be in his old friend and king, and wanted to stand by as best he was able.

The noise and stir became uproar on midwinter day. Low in the south, the sun shone heatlessly on the gathered beasts. Horses stamped and neighed, kine rolled their eyes and lowed, swine grunted and squealed and churned about in their pens. They knew something ill for them was toward, and the smell of their fear grew rank. But ropes snugged about their necks, strong hands took hold, and one by one they went bucking into the grove. Under its bare trees, before the halidom that stood at its heart, the altar stones waited. A hammer stunned, a knife slashed, blood spurted into bowls, the beast died and was dragged off, the next came up, while the crowding watchers shouted to the gods.

Thereupon they pressed into the building. It loomed long and lean, darkly timbered, three tiers of shingled roofs above rafter ends carved into dragon heads. With brushes newly made from willow switches, the offerers sprinkled its walls with blood, both outside and inside. The same hot red spattered the folk as they passed the door. A great fire burned within. Kettles hung above it, in which seethed the flesh of the slain. At the far end reared the figures of Odin with his spear, Thor with his hammer, Freyr with his upstanding yard. On the pillars were graven doings of the gods, how Fenris was bound, the Midgard worm drawn from the bottom of the sea, the riding of the golden boar. Deep ale casks stood near the fire, and a heap of drinking horns. There too was King Hadding. No women or hirelings, but housecarles of his, sweating in helmet and mail, filled those horns and handed them to him. He made the sign of blessing over each and passed it above the fire to a worshipper. The men took long to go around. They packed the floor. More casks had been set about for their use.