Hadding obeyed with a waxing greed. As he drained the draught, strength flowed into him. It washed away pain. His sight cleared, his hearing sharpened. He saw first the figures molded on the horn. They showed it raised by a woman in welcome to a man who came riding with two ravens aflight above him. Elsewhere they showed other men feasting and fighting. He glanced at himself. Though his mail was battered, sword dulled, clothes torn and blood-clotted, every gash had scarlessly knitted together. He was healed and hale.

He rose and looked about, bewildered. He seemed to be in a hall, alone with Gangleri. He could not be sure. The bench was cunningly made and inlaid with gold. Behind it was a wainscot of the finest oak, carved in strange shapes. A bearskin covered the floor under his feet. But he could not see to the end of the building, nor to the crossbeams overhead. It was too huge, and full of a blue twilight. He thought the nearer pillars had the forms of men. Blurs here and there might be hangings, dim moons might be shields, and fires might be burning far off. But he could not tell.

His look sought Gangleri. The one eye caught his two. A chill went through the renewed warmth in Hadding. “Who are you?” he whispered. “Where is this?”

“I have said what I have said and brought you where I have brought you,” answered the old one.

His honor came back to Hadding. “You have saved my life. How may I thank you?”

“The night is not yet done,” Gangleri warned, “and it is not yet well for you to linger here.”

“Where then should I go?”

The Wanderer spoke gravely:

When back you fare, foes will grip you,

Bind you for beasts to tear,

Booty of wolves; but keep those men

Lulled by the telling of tales

Until from drink they drowse to sleep,

Letting you burst your bonds.

Leave them behind.—

He went on. Hadding listened dazed, grasping after understanding. It slipped from his fingers. He dared not ask.

“Now come,” Gangleri said at the end, and strode off. Hadding followed.

They walked a long way through the gloaming. A door sheered iron banded, so high that its top was unseeable. Gangleri laid hold of a golden ring on the bolt and swung it wide. They trod forth into cold stillness under a blaze of crowding, unwinking stars. The stallion waited.

“Ride before me,” Gangleri bade. He helped his guest up. When they were on the saddle he again wrapped his cloak around Hadding, over his head. He whistled. The horse galloped off.

Now, though, Hadding was himself. More and more he thought it unmanly thus to cower hooded on another man’s breast, in the crook of his arm. Anger kindled. He fumbled at the cloak, drew a fold aside, and stuck his head out.