In spring, after a hard winter, men rode again to the house. They did not linger and Braki was not among them. The chieftain had fallen sick during the bitter weather, had tossed abed fevered and coughing, and then gone down hell-road. They had laid him out with his weapons and heaped a barrow over him.

Hadding left the house. He was away for three days and nights. The bond that had held him there was broken.

VI

He came back toward evening, halted in the open doorway, and stood while his sight wonted itself to the gloom within.

The three thursir sat eating. Even cross-legged on the floor, they loomed higher than he, shadowy bulks, fleeting glitter off eyes and teeth. Smoke from a low fire drifted about them. Its sharpness mingled with smells from the cowstalls at the rear. After the woodland, that was a thick air to breathe.

“Welcome back,” rumbled Vagnhöfdi, and “Are you hungry?” asked Halflidi. Hardgreip sighed.

“No, I have fed today on my kill,” Hadding said, “but I will drink farewell with you, for tomorrow I go home.”

“What?” cried Hardgreip. “Here is your home!”

He shook his head. “Denmark is mine. Too long have I been away. Too long has my father’s foeman been alive.”

“If you go against him alone,” said Vagnhöfdi, “it’s not he who’ll fall. Are you a berserker, to howl and slash at a throng of men till they cut you down?”

“You promised you’d fight at my side.”

Now it was the giant’s shaggy head that shook. “Once do I dare do that, but no more. If they knew a jotun was warring in their world, they’d call on the gods, and Thor would soon be there. I have no shield to stop his hammer.”

“I am a Skjoldung,” said Hadding, “kin to the gods.”

“And a tricky lot they are,” Vagnhöfdi growled. “Stay, lad, at least a few more days, and I’ll try to help you think.”

“Oh, stay,” Hardgreip breathed. “Would you so coldly forsake those who love you?”

Her look clung to him. Tall and broad-shouldered he stood, lithe and strong, in a huntsman’s green wadmal kirtle and breeks, knife at belt, spear in hand, bow and quiver slung on his back. The light streamed in to make molten gold of the hair that fell from a headband to his collarbones. As yet he had no real beard, but down of the same hue glowed on cheeks and chin and above the firm-set lips. His nose was straight, his eyes glacier blue, his voice rolling full out of the deep chest.

She saw a slight wavering on his face and said gladly, “I know you’re not heartless and thankless.”

Hadding sighed. “Well, if you want it so much, I will stay those few days, but no longer. I will not. I cannot.”