The Lovers of Gudrun: The Medieval Tale for November

Narrative:

“The Lovers of Gudrun,” derived from the Laxdaela Saga, is an Icelandic tragedy of desire and kinship destroyed by an “ethic” of revenge. Kiartan Olafson and Bodli Thorleikson, foster-brothers, are attracted to Gudrun Oswifsdaughter, who loves Kiartan, but marries Bodli when the more ambitious Kiartan lingers for several years in Norway. Kiartan eventually returns and marries another woman, but Gudrun goads her brothers and the hapless Bodli to ambush and murder Kiartan, and Kiartan’s relatives take revenge on Bodli a few years later.

Morris sympathized with most of the tale’s central characters, and wrote Charles Eliot Norton when he finished the poem in August, 1869 that “The story in question I think on the whole the most important thing I have written; the deeper I got into the old tale the more interested I found myself, and now it is finished, I feel... rather cold to subjects with less of life and nature in them.”

As the story begins, Gudrun—“just come to her full height,” and so beautiful that “scarce might she grow fairer from that day”—gives dinner to the wise old seer Guest and his son, at Bathstead, her father’s farm. Guest, overcome by premonitions “[a]s though unseen things to his soul were bared,” asks her to tell him her dreams, and she narrates four. In the first, she tore an ugly coif from her head and threw it in a nearby stream. In the second, a fine silver bracelet fell from heaven but disappeared into a river. In the third, she fell and broke a golden arm-ring, and “to my heart it came,/ Spite of those flaws, that on me lay the blame/ Why thus was spoiled that noble gift and rare...” (ll. 195–97). In the fourth, a swift current swept a jewelled golden helm away into the firth.

Guest explains to her that each dream represented a marriage, and the coif, bracelet, ring and helm are husbands. She will contemn the first but love the second, who will die at sea. The third will be worthy but doomed, and the fourth will also die at sea. When Gudrun heard this, “Her teeth were set hard, and her brow was knit/ As though she saw her life and strove with it” (ll. 331–32).

Guest then leaves Oswif’s farm and rides to Herdholt, another landholding nearby, where the genial and elegant Olaf Hauskuldson, called Olaf Peacock, proudly points out his eldest son Kiartan Olafson and foster-son Bodli Thorleikson swimming together in a nearby river. Prompted by Olaf, Guest warily predicts that Kiartan will attain “more glory. .. Than any man now waxing in the land” (ll. 592–93), but adds later to his own son that: “[T]hou shalt live to hear when I am dead/ Of Bodli standing over Kiartan’s head,/ His friend, his foster-brother, and his bane,/ That he in turn e’en such an end may gain” (ll. 633–36).

Briefly, Morris narrates Gudrun’s first two marriages. She divorces her first husband Thorvald when he slaps her, and loves Thord, the second, but he drowns soon after they marry. She then finds herself attracted to Kiartan Olafson, who “all men’s hearts did move,” but Kiartan is already preparing to sail to Norway and seek his fortune at the court of Olaf Trygvisson. When Gudrun offers rather wistfully to accompany him, he tells her curtly to care for her brothers and father, and await his return. Bodli Thorleikson departs with his foster-brother, and realizes before he leaves that he also loves Gudrun.

In Norway, Bodli is wary of Olaf Trygvisson, the warlord who ‘Christianized’ Norway and Iceland at swordpoint, and returns to Iceland after a single year. As he prepares to leave, Bodli asks Kiartan what messages he should convey to those at home, and Kiartan responds that he should “Tell Gudrun all this/ Thou knowest of, my honour and my bliss;/ Say we shall meet again!” (ll. 1784–86).

In Iceland, Gudrun is passionately eager for any scrap of news about Kiartan, and Bodli tells her—accurately—that Kiartan may be courting Olaf’s sister, a remark Gudrun, Kiartan and Bodli later construe as betrayal. For reasons the narrative never fully clarifies, Gudrun then decides to marry Bodli, but her anger and disappointment make the union unhappy from the start.

In Norway, Kiartan has none of Bodli’s reservations about the new state religion (“sooth, for me ... are all these things but words” 11. 1635–36), and quickly makes himself Olaf’s admired vassal and potential brother-in-law. After three years, however, he decides to return home, and abruptly tells Olaf and his sister Ingibiorg that he expects to marry an Icelandic woman more beautiful than any in Norway. Ingibiorg generously bids him farewell, and gives him a gold-embroidered coif for his future wife.

On his return, the aggrieved Kiartan blames fate, Gudrun and Bodli for his loss, but not his ambition or indifference (Bodli, in particular, is “changed into a shadow and a lie,” 1. 2364), and marries instead the gentle, graceful and affectionate Refna. After the marriage, petty thefts mar obligatory yuletide visits between members of Olaf’s and Oswif’s households—Gudrun steals Ingibiorg’s golden coif from Refna, and Kiartan’s prized sword disappears—and Kiartan, troubled by Refna’s distress, beseiges Bathstead and steals several head of cattle in retaliation.

Kiartan’s mother Thorgerd and Gudrun’s malicious brothers also listen to assorted talebearers, and the atmosphere soon becomes too charged for the venerable Olaf to check. Although Bodli bears no personal responsibility for the thefts and desires peace, he is surrounded by crudely malicious in-laws, and grows steadily more despondent. A rare moment of respite from the demands of ‘honor’ occurs when Kiartan takes Bodli aside, and asks, “What say’st thou? are the days to come forgiven,/ Shall folk remember less that we have striven/ Than that we loved, when all the tale is told?” (ll. 3512–14).

Gudrun, consumed by “a fire/ Of very hate” (ll. 3929–30), now goads her brothers to ambush and kill Kiartan, and insists that Bodli accompany them. The now-tortured Bodli reluctantly agrees, but Gudrun remains fiercely suspicious (“Ah! dost thou think thou yet mayst save him then?” 1. 4063), and Morris leaves in suspension whether Bodli’s motive is desire to do Gudrun’s bidding, or some obscure sense that he and Kiartan are both doomed.

At the ambush itself (a real, locatable event in Icelandic history), Bodli is stricken with shame and dread, and “with his mail-clad hands his face did hide,” (l. 4301) but the horrified Kiartan taunts him to “do the deed that thou must do,” (l. 4347) and drops his sword. Finally, Bodli thrusts him though (“into his shieldless side the sword was thrust,” 1. 4351), then lacerates himself with grief and guilt, and Gudrun capriciously mourns Kiartan and condemns her unwilling instrument. Refna pines away and dies of sorrow, and Olaf’s sons wait obediently till their father dies to ambush and murder Bodli three years later.

After Bodli’s death Gudrun remembers him with little affection but some respect, and remarries a final time, to a distinguished chieftain (the gold helm) who dies in a shipwreck. In her old age she becomes an anchorite, and asked by her middle-aged son by Bodli, also named Bodli, whom she has loved the most, she “cried, with . . . hands stretched out for all that she had lost: I did the worst to him I loved the most”’(a direct translation of the Saga-original, “Ég gerði peim verst, sem ég unni mest”). By “him,” Gudrun presumably meant Kiartan, but the Icelandic “peim” meant both “him” and “them,” and she arguably “did . . . worst” to the mild-mannered man she coerced into murder.

Implausibilities abound in this complex plot, at any rate, as they did in its more laconic original. They do not undermine Morris’s deft ordering of its fatalistic frame, or the intricate ironies of its smoldering compulsions, internecine hatreds and desolate regrets.

Sources:

No Earthly Paradise tale showed more careful attention to the letter of its original, and few deviated more from its spirit, for the Laxdaela Saga and “The Lovers of Gudrun” are impressive but very different literary works. Morris remarked in an 1887 essay on “The Early Literature of the North,” that “the Lax-dalers’ story contains a very touching and beautiful tale, but it is not done justice to by the details of the story” (Le Mire, Unpublished Lectures, 1969). In the process of “doing justice” to his plot, Morris tempered the Sagas preoccupations with interfamilial negotiations and reasons-of-state, and refashioned its feud-narrative of property negotiations and familial rivalries into an allegory of doomed friendship and vengeful love.

Kjartan and Guðrun were the original Sagas most dramatic characters, but Kjartan’s father Ólafur Höskuldsson was its central figure, and the work’s author(s) interwove the latter’s prophecies, strategic alliances, and counsels of forbearance with a variety of subsidiary episodes (after Ólafur’s death, Snorri Goði—Snorri the Priest—played a similar role), and the Laxdaela Saga celebrated the judgments and prophecies of wise dynasts more than the conflicts which rent and tested them. The Saga-Ólafur, for example, deeply loved both his own son Kjartan and his foster-son Bolli (son of Ólafur’s half-brother Porleikur, and adopted as a peace-offering), and the Saga-writer considered Ólafur’s sentence for Kjartan’s murder—banishment of Ósvífur’s sons but not Bolli—both compassionate and just.

Morris also grafted “The Lovers of Gudrun’s” intricate ambiguities of sexual conflict onto the psychologically stark and penurious framework of a multigenerational quasi-chronicle, which focused only in passing on the triangular conflict between childhood friends who loved the same striking woman. Bodli and Kiartan’s intense friendship in Morris’s tale is much more vivid than its historical ambience of tribal feuds, and Morris used all his skills as an internal realist to fashion a narrative groundswell from his characters’ convoluted anguish, impose plausible psychological patterns on their behavior, and modulate their more inexplicable actions to heighten sympathy for their fates.

Gudrun required the most “refashioning.” Morris tempered the ruthless, child-slaying classical figure Medea in similar ways in his Life and Death of Jason, and he omitted or elided here the Saga-Guðrun’s pride, greed, duplicity, heedlessness and zest for plotting, and heightened her fear, love, ambivalence and regret.

In the Saga, for example, Guðrun’s marriage-contract with the wealthy Þorvaldur granted her jewelry of her choice, and ensured her half of his estate should they ever divorce. Þorvaldur accepted these terms, but was a bit startled when “In all the Westfjords there were no jewels so costly that Guðrun did not consider them her due, and she repaid Þorvaldur with animosity if he failed to buy them, however expensive they might be” (Laxdaela Saga, trans. with intro. by Magnus Magnússon and Hermann Pálsson, Penguin, 1972, 124). He finally struck her in anger and frustration, and she swiftly divorced him, in profitable keeping with the contract’s terms.

The Saga-Guðrun also began her relationship with her second husband Þórður while she was still married to Þorvaldur, and convinced Þórður to divorce his wife to marry her. Conjury by the wife’s aggrieved relatives allegedly later led to Þórður’s death, and Guðrun gave up her son by him for adoption. In the Laxdaela Saga, Gudrun married her third husband Bolli—a large landowner, skillful manager and reasonable suitor in the Sagas terms—under strong pressure from her family, a commonplace motive Morris chose to omit.

The Saga-Guðrun also needed little help from brothers, gossips or other go-betweens to engineer Kjartan’s murder. Morris’s Gudrun expresses (inconsistent) distaste for “those murderous men,” but the Saga-Guðrun roused her brothers out of bed on the day of the attack and exhorted them as follows: “Men like you have the memory of hogs. It’s obviously futile to hope that you will ever dare to attack Kjartan at home if you haven’t the nerve to face him now when he is travelling with one or two companions. You just sit at home pretending to be men, and there are always too many of you about” (172).

Morris’s Gudrun, similarly, is distraught and grief-stricken when the deed is finally done. Her Saga-prototype coldly observed that “What I like best is that Hrefna will not go laughing to bed tonight” (176), and assured Bolli that “I am deeply grateful to you for what you have done. I now know for certain that you will do anything to please me.”

The Saga-Guðrun also plotted her revenge of Bolli’s murder for twelve years, forced her adolescent sons to join the ambush, and promised marriage to one potential avenger before she reneged on the promise. Her brief love for Kjartan quickly faded into the narrative background-noise of her subsequent struggles for personal and dynastic preeminence, and the Saga devoted many pages to her fourth marriage, to the influential and wealthy Christian chieftain Porkell, and her ambitions for her sons by him and Bolli.

In this context, it was perhaps inevitable that Morris’s changes also diminished the Saga-Guðrun’s hardy determination, perhaps her most striking trait. In the Saga, Bolli and Guðrun were alone together when Kiartan’s relatives cornered him in a farm-shed:

Bolli recognized Halldor by his voice, and several of his companions. He told [the pregnant] Guðrun to go away from the shieling, saying that this was not an encounter she would be likely to enjoy. Guðrun said she thought that nothing would happen there which she should not be allowed to watch, and added that it could do Bolli no harm to have her by his side. Bolli insisted on having his own way, however, and so Guðrun left. (186)

It seems unlikely that this blunt, unflinching woman would have thrown herself weeping on her bed to lament Bolli’s earlier departure to ambush Kjartan.

Morris also made extensive modifications in the motives of the Saga’s Bolli and Kjartan, iconically straightforward characters un-sicklied-o’er by ambivalence and reflection. Kiartan’s refusal of Gudrun’s offer to accompany him to Norway in “The Lovers of Gudrun” is wistful, even romantic:

So fought love in him with the craving vain

The love of all the wondering world to gain,

... “thou a word or twain of me shalt hear,

E’en if the birds must bear them o’er the sea.” (ll. 1144–45, 1014–14)

The Saga-Kjartan, by contrast, responded flatly that “That’s out of the question. . . . Your brothers haven’t settled down yet and your father is an old man, and they wouldn’t have anyone to look after them if you leave the country. So wait for me instead for three years” (142).

The more physically aggressive and acquisitive Saga-Kjartan also plotted to burn down the Norwegian King and his retainers in their palace (Morris’s high-minded character was more preoccupied with self-defense), and sent back no hopeful message with Bolli to Guðrun. Kjartan was also well-aware that Hrefna (Morris’s Refna) was the daughter of one of the West-fjords’ leading landowners, and his final clash with Bolli involved a property dispute which rankled Guðrun enough to make her complain that:

Kjartan has given you a harsher choice than he offered Thorarin [the previous owner]: either that you leave this district with little honour, or else that you confront him and prove yourself rather less fainthearted than you have been hitherto” (169).

The Saga-Bolli, on the other hand, was a “courteous and very warrior-like” man who had “a taste for the ornate,” and acted calmly and consistently to defend the interests his shame- and honor-ridden culture called on him to defend. He was not diffident or self-effacing, and did not propose to Guðrun soon after his return. When Kjartan accused him of theft, he answered simply that “we are not guilty of the charges you make .... We would have expected anything of you but to accuse us of theft” (166).

The deciding motive for his participation in the assault against Kjartan, finally, was a warning from his father-in-law that Kjartan would be obliged to kill him, if his more hostile brothers-in-law failed to achieve their aims. Morris’s Gudrun berates Bodli when he returns, but the disgusted Bolli reproved Guðrun in the Saga: “This luckless deed will live long enough in my mind without you reminding me of it. ... I suspect you would have been less shocked if I had been left lying on the field of battle and Kjartan had lived to tell the tale” (176).

In the Saga’s climactic confrontation between Kjartan and Bolli, moreover, Kjartan surrendered in the end from physical fatigue, not despair. Neither Kjartan nor Bolli mentioned Guðrun, and no religious symbolism hovered over the Sagas account of Kjartan’s death. In Morris’s tale, by contrast, the emotionally charged encounter is a virtual suicide-pact.

Morris’s most pointed omission may have been of the Sagas detailed account of Bolli’s evisceration and eventual decapitation by Kjartan’s brothers:

Bolli said, “It’s safe now for you brothers to come a little closer than you have done so far.” And he said he did not think his defence would last very long now. It was Thorgerd who answered him, and said there was no need to shrink from dealing with Bolli thoroughly; she told them to finish off their work. Bolli was still standing up against the wall of the shieling, clutching his tunic tightly to stop his entrails falling out. Steinthor Olafsson now sprang at him and swung a great axe at his neck just above the shoulders, and the head flew off at once.

“May your hands prosper,” said Thorgerd, and added that Guðrun would now have some red hairs to comb for Bolli.

With that they left the shieling. (187–88)

The Saga-Bolli was a sturdy landowner, in short, who tried to protect his pregnant wife, and stoically confronted a sordid death. Morris elided all this, and dilated the guilt and pain of his betrayal and desperate efforts to appease his angry wife.

There is little doubt that Morris’s extensive changes made “The Lovers of Gudrun” The Earthly Paradises most successful tragedy, but its bleak insights and sombre power cut against, not with, the Sagas harsh straightforward grain. In the brooding fratricidal conflicts of “The Lovers of Gudrun,” Morris set aside his original’s generic template of ‘epic’ retribution, and created a new cathartic tragedy of anguished betrayal and stoic resignation.

Critical Remarks:

“The Lovers of Gudrun” marked Morris’s first mature use of a finished Norse frame, and he later matched his extensive revisions of this epic prototype with others he undertook in Sigurd the Volsung, his extended poetic redaction of the Vokunga Saga.

Like her Saga-model, in particular, Gudrun survives to become a nunna and reflect on the moral ambiguities she had wrought, but Morris makes her more striking in manner and appearance than Kiartan or Bodli, and her unquenched passions are markedly more ‘romantic’ than those of her original. Longevity also gives her insight to interpret her own life and ‘fate,’ but she remains physically and psychologically repressed, in ways that limit her moral and emotional range.

Morris’s Kiartan takes others’ affection for granted, and sometimes fails to anticipate the consequences of his actions, but he accepts these calmly when they come. Bodli never wins the affection his early qualities merit, and his deferential gestures eventually become integral to the identity they corrode. In the end, he and Kiartan blend into a kind of composite protagonist—the broken armband, perhaps—fused and tempered, at first, by deep friendship, before their desire for Gudrun shatters them both.

Indeed, contrasts between Kiartan and Bodli visibly diminish in Morris’s tale, as the two become complementary figures in a kind of quasi-redemptive immolation-rite—one which Bodli, by the way, strangely assumes will reunite them in heaven (he seems noticeably less certain about Gudrun). The most affectionate and yielding of the three, Bodli incurs the tale’s harshest internal reproaches, but Morris’s intricate casuistry creates a measure of sympathy for his suffering and remorse. Kiartan—the tale’s man of action and most “heroic” figure—may be the most inscrutable, and the most difficult to comprehend.

It may not surprise the reader that D. G. Rossetti particularly praised this tale, for one could readily adduce a number of parallels with Morris’s and Rossetti’s painfully complex but nonviolent rivalry. Its emotional charge both reflected and diffused Morris’s own predicament, and Bodli’s expressions of helpless longing often seemed to reach beyond conventional poetic expressions of frustrated desire.

It should be mentioned, however, that Morris had always found motifs of fidelity-in-rejection attractive. Such patterns appeared and reappeared throughout his juvenilia, and in The Defence of Guenevere and early prose romances. As early as 1856, for example, he wrote “Gertha’s Lovers,” a vaguely ‘Nordic’ prose romance in which the introspective Leuchnar expiates a brief flash of envy with a lifetime of devotion, and loyally serves his friend’s widow after his death. Even in this early work there are inchoate suggestions of conflict within a single composite character, but “The Lovers of Gudrun” sharpened such conflicts into a crisis, in which each part mortally wounds the other, and therefore itself.

   Effectively enacted tragedy, of course, raises intricate questions of moral responsibility. Is “fate” an intervention of internal or external forces, or of some inchoate and elusive mixture of the two? How much ‘choice’ do we have, if we ‘choose’ our lives within narrowly predetermined confines of character and social role?

   Whatever ‘choices’ they may have, “The Lovers of Gudrun”’s three principal characters remain faithful to their deepest and most “fateful” passions. Each bears complementary responsibility for their common ‘fate,’ and Morris offers roughly equal sympathy for them all. The narrative explicitly exempts Gudrun from blame, and attributes no serious fault to Kiartan, but implicitly forgives Bodli his trespasses, in the critical confrontation’s anguished redemptive embrace.

   More sombre and less didactic than most of the other Earthly Paradise tales, “The Lovers of Gudrun” thus interprets ‘love’ and ‘betrayal’ as the unwilled confluence of powerful and perhaps arbitrary forces which work their effects in human affairs. The tale’s narrator, dreamers and protagonists all grieve, but they find no alternatives to these forces, and struggle in the end to forgive those who enact them. Such fatalism takes more explicitly deterministic forms in Sigurd the Volsung, in which larger-scale thaumaturgic forces ultimately overwhelm generations of ‘heroic’ protagonists.

   “The Lovers of Gudrun,” in short, is The Earthly Paradises most tragic medieval tale, but it does also offer some consolation, and its sacrificial and quasi-redemptive nuances enjoin us to withhold judgment. Temperament might be fate, as Novalis believed, but Morris hoped that memory and forgiveness would temper them both.

   See also Boos, 266–301; Calhoun, 185–95; Kirchhoff, 194–98; Oberg, 50–52; Silver, 67, 74–75, 101.

Manuscripts:

A draft appears in Fitzwilliam Library M. S. EP 25.

The Lovers of Gudrun.

The Argument.

THIS STORY SHOWS HOW TWO FRIENDS LOVED A FAIR WOMAN, AND HOW HE WHO LOVED HER BEST HAD HER TO WIFE, THOUGH SHE LOVED HIM LITTLE OR NOT AT ALL; AND HOW ONE OF THESE TWO FRIENDS GAVE SHAME TO AND RECEIVED DEATH OF THE OTHER, WHO IN HIS TURN CAME TO HIS END BY REASON OF THAT DEED.

Of Herdholt and Bathstead.

ERDHOLT1 my tale names for the stead, where erst
Olaf the Peacock2 dwelt, nowise the worst
Among the great men of a noble day.
Upon a knoll amidst a vale it lay,
Nigh where Laxriver meets the western sea,3		5
And in that day it nourished plenteously
Great wealth of sheep and cattle. Ye shall know
That Olaf to a mighty house did go
To take to him a wife: Thorgerd4 he gat,
The daughter of the man at Burg who sat,		10
After a great life, with eyes waxing dim,
Egil, the mighty son of Skallagrim.5
Now of the sons the twain had, first we name
Kiartan alone, for eld’s sake and for fame,
Then Steinthor, Haldor, Helgi, and Hauskuld,		15
All of good promise, strong and lithe and bold,
Yet little against Kiartan’s glory weighed;
Besides these props the Peacock’s house that stayed,
Two maidens, Thurid, Thorbiorg there were;6
And furthermore a youth was fostered there,		20
Whom Thorleik, Olaf’s brother, called his son:7
Bodli his name was. Thus the tale is done
Of those who dwelt at Herdholt in those days.
MIDST the grey slopes, Bathstead8 its roof did raise
Seven miles from Herdholt; Oswif, wise of men,9		25
Who Thordis had to wife, abode there then
With his five sons, of whom let names go past
That are but names;10 but these were first and last,
Ospak and Thorolf: never, says my tale,
That Oswif’s wisdom was of much avail		30
In making these, though they were stout enow,
But in his house a daughter did there grow
To perfect womanhood, Gudrun by name,
Whose birth the wondering world no more might blame
Than hers who erst called Tyndarus her sire,11		35
What hearts soe’er, what roof-trees she might fire,
What hearts soe’er, what hearths she might leave cold,
Before the ending of the tale be told.
BUT where we take the story up, fifteen
The maiden’s years were; Kiartan now had seen		40
His eighteenth spring, and younger by a year
Was Bodli, son of Thorleik. Now most fair
Seemed Olaf’s lot in life, and scarcely worse
Was Oswif’s, and what shadow of a curse
Might hang o’er either house, was thought of now		45
As men think of a cloud the mountain’s brow
Hides from their eyes an hour before the rain;
For so much love there was betwixt the twain,
Herdholt and Bathstead, that it well might last
Until the folk aforenamed were all passed		50
From out the world; but herein shall be shown
How the sky blackened, and the storm swept down.
The Prophecy of Guest the Wise.		52A
PON a day, amid the maids that spun
Within the bower at Bathstead, sat Gudrun;
Her father in the firth a-fishing was,		55
The while her mother through the meads did pass
About some homely work. So there she sat,
Nor set her hand to this work or to that,
And a half-frown was on her pensive face,
Nor did she heed the chatter of the place		60
As girl spake unto girl. Then did she hear
The sound of horse-hoofs swiftly drawing near,
And started up, and cried: That shall be Guest,12
Riding, as still his wont is, from the west
Unto the Thing,13 and this is just the day		65
When he is wont at Bathstead to make stay.
Then to the door she went, and with slim hand
Put it aback, and ‘twixt the posts did stand,
And saw therewith a goodly company
Ride up the grey slopes leading from the sea.		70
THAT spring was she just come to her full height;
Low-bosomed yet she was, and slim and light,
Yet scarce might she grow fairer from that day;
Gold were the locks wherewith the wind did play,
Finer than silk, waved softly like the sea		75
After a three days’ calm, and to her knee
Well-nigh they reached; fair were the white hands laid
Upon the door-posts where the dragons played;
Her brow was smooth now, and a smile began
To cross her delicate mouth, the snare of man;		80
For some thought rose within the heart of her
That made her eyes bright, her cheeks ruddier
Than was their wont, yet were they delicate
As are the changing steps of high heaven’s gate;
Bluer than grey her eyes were; somewhat thin		85
Her marvellous red lips; round was her chin,
Cloven, and clear-wrought; like an ivory tower
Rose up her neck from love’s white-veiled bower.
But in such lordly raiment was she clad,
As midst its threads the scent of southlands had,		90
And on its hem the work of such-like hands
As deal with silk and gold in sunny lands.
Too dainty seemed her feet to come anear
The guest-worn threshold-stone. So stood she there,
And rough the world about her seemed to be,		95
A rude heap cast up from the weary sea.
BUT now the new-come folk, some twelve in all,
Drew rein before the doorway of the hall,
And she a step or two across the grass
Unto the leader of the men did pass,		100
A white-haired elder clad in kirtle red:14
Be welcome here, O Guest the Wise! she said,
My father honours me so much that I
Am bid to pray thee not to pass us by,
But bide here for a while; he says withal		105
That thou and he together in the hall
Are two wise men together, two who can
Talk cunningly about the ways of man.
Guest laughed, and leapt from off his horse, and said:
Fair words from fair lips, and a goodly stead!		110
But unto Thickwood must I go to-night15
To give my kinsman Armod some delight;
Nevertheless here will we rest a while,
And thou and I with talk an hour beguile,
For so it is that all men say of thee,		115
Not far off falls the apple from the tree,
That ‘neath thy coif some day shall lie again,
When he is dead, the wise old Oswif’s brain.
WITH that he took her hand, and to the hall
She led him, and his fellows one and all		120
Leapt to the ground, and followed clattering
In through the porch, and many a goodly thing
There had they plenteously; but mid the noise
And rattling horns and laughter, with clear voice
Spake Gudrun unto Guest, and ever he		125
Smiled at her goodly sayings joyfully,
And yet at whiles grew grave; yea, and she too,
Though her eyes glistened, seemed as scarce she knew
The things she said. At last, amid their speech,
The old man stayed his hand as it did reach		130
Out to the beaker, and his grey eyes stared
As though unseen things to his soul were bared;
Then Gudrun waited trembling, till he said:
Liest thou awake at midnight in thy bed,
Thinking of dreams dreamed in the winter-tide,		135
When the north-east, turned off the mountain-side,
Shook the stout timbers of the hall, as when
They shook in Norway ere the upland men
Bore axe against them?16 She spake low to him:
So is it, but of these the most wax dim		140
When daylight comes again; but four there are,
Four dreams in one, that bring me yet great care,
Nor may I soon forget them, yea, they sink
Still deeper in my soul: but do thou drink,
And tell me merry tales; of what avail		145
To speak of things that make a maiden pale
And a man laugh? Speak quick, he said, before
This glimmer of a sight I have is o’er.
THEN she delayed not, but in quick words said:
Methought that with a coif upon my head		150
I stood upon a stream-side, and withal
Upon my heart the sudden thought did fall
How foul that coif was, and how ill it sat,
And though the folk beside me spoke ‘gainst that,
Nevertheless, from off mine head I tore		155
The curséd thing, and cast it from the shore;
And glad at heart was I when it was gone,
And woke up laughing. Well, the second one?
Said Guest: Make good speed now, and tell me all!
THIS was the dream, she said, that next did fall:		160
By a great water was I; on mine arm
A silver ring, that more my heart did charm
Than one might deem that such a small thing might;
My very own indeed seemed that delight,
And long I looked to have it; but as I		165
Stood and caressed the dear thing, suddenly
It slipped from off my arm, and straightway fell
Into the water: nor is more to tell
But that I wept thereat, and sorrowed sore
As for a friend that I should see no more.		170
AS great, said Guest, is this thing as the last,
What follows after? O’er the road I passed
Nigh Bathstead, said she, in fair raiment clad,
And on mine arm a golden ring I had;
And seemly did I deem it, yet the love		175
I had therefor was not so much above
That therewithal I loved the silver ring,
As gold is held by all a dearer thing
Than silver is; now, whatso worth it bore,
Methought that needs for longer than before		180
This ring should give me what it might of bliss;
But even as with foolish dreams it is
So was it now; falling I seemed to be,
And spread my arms abroad to steady me;
Upon a stone the ring smote, and atwain		185
It broke; and when I stooped the halves to gain,
Lo, blood ran out from either broken place;
Then as I gazed thereon I seemed to trace
A flaw within the craftsman’s work, whereby
The fair thing brake; yea, withal presently		190
Yet other flaws therein could I discern;
And as I stood and looked, and sore did yearn,
Midst blind regrets, rather than raging pain,
For that fair thing I should not see again,
My eyes seemed opened, to my heart it came,		195
Spite of those flaws, that on me lay the blame
Why thus was spoiled that noble gift and rare,
Because therewith I dealt not with due care:
So with a sigh I woke. Ill fare, said Guest,
Three of thy dreams, tell now about the rest.		200
THIS is the last of the four dreams, she said:
Methought I had a helm upon my head,
Wrought all of gold, with precious gems beset,
And pride and joy I had therein, and yet,
So heavy was it, that I scarce might hold		205
My head upright for that great weight of gold;
Yet for all that I laid no blame or wrong
Upon it, and I fain had kept it long;
But amid this, while least I looked therefor,
Something, I knew not what, the fair helm tore		210
From off mine head, and then I saw it swept
Into the firth, and when I would have wept
Then my voice failed me, and mine eyes were dry
Despite my heart; and therewith presently
I woke, and heard withal the neatherd’s song		215
As o’er the hard white snow he went along
Unto the byre,17 shouldering his load of hay;
Then knew I the beginning of the day,
And to the window went and saw afar
The wide firth, black beneath the morning-star,		220
And all the waste of snow, and saw the man
Dark on the slope; ‘twixt the dead earth and wan,
And the dark vault of star-besprinkled sky,
Croaking, a raven toward the sea did fly;
With that I fell a-yearning for the spring,		225
And all the pleasant things that it should bring,
And lay back in my bed and shut my eyes,
To see what pictures to my heart would rise,
And slept, but dreamed no more; now spring is here.
Thou knowst perchance, made wise with many a year,		230
What thing it is I long for; but to me
All grows as misty as the autumn sea
‘Neath the first hoar-frost, and I name it not,
The thing wherewith my wondering heart is hot.
THEN Guest turned round upon her, with a smile		235
Beholding her fair face a little while,
And as he looked on her she hid her eyes
With slim hands, but he saw the bright flush rise,
Despite of them, up to her forehead fair;
Therewith he sighed as one who needs must bear		240
A heavy burden. Since thou thus hast told
Thy dreams, he said, scarce may I now withhold
The tale of what mine eyes have seen therein;
Yet little from my foresight shalt thou win,
Since both the blind, and they who see full well,		245
Go the same road, and leave a tale to tell
Of interwoven miseries, lest they,
Who after them a while on earth must stay,
Should have no pleasure in the winter night,
When this man’s pain is made that man’s delight.		250
HE smiled an old man’s smile, as thus he spake,
Then said: But I must hasten ere it break,
The thin sharp thread of light that yet I see.
Methinks a stirring life shall hap to thee.
Thou shalt be loved and love; wrongs shalt thou give,		255
Wrongs shalt thou take, and therewithal outlive
Both wrongs, and love, and joy, and dwell alone
When all the fellows of thy life are gone.
Nay, think not I can tell thee much of this,
How it shall hap, the sorrow or the bliss;		260
Only foreshadowing of outward things,
Great, and yet not the greatest, dream-lore brings.
For whereas of the ill coif thou didst dream,
That such a husband unto me doth seem
As thou shalt think mates thee but ill enow,		265
Nor shall love-longings bind thee; so shalt thou
By thine own deed shake off this man from thee.
But next the ring of silver seems to me
Another husband, loved and loving well;
But even as the ring from off thee fell		270
Into the water, so it is with him,
The sea shall make his love and promise dim.
But for the gold ring: thou shalt wed again,
A worthier man belike, yet well-nigh vain
My strivings are to see what means the gold		275
Thou lovedst not more than silver: I am old
And thou art very young; hadst thou my sight,
Perchance herein thou wouldst have more of might.
But my heart says, that on the land there comes
A faith that telleth of more lovesome homes		280
For dead men, than we deemed of heretofore,
And that this man full well shall know that lore.18
But whereas blood from out the ring did run,
By the sword’s edge his life shall be fordone:
Then for the flaws, see thou thyself to these!		285
Thou knowest how a thing full well may please,
When first thou hast it in thine hold, until
Up to the surface float the seeds of ill,
And vain regret o’er all thy life is spread.
But for the heavy helm that bowed thine head:		290
This, thy last husband, a great chief shall be,
And hold a helm of terror over thee
Though thou shalt love him: at the end of life
His few last minutes shall be spent in strife
With the wild waves of Hwammfirth, and in vain;		295
For him too shall the white sea-goddess gain.
So is thy dream areded:19 but these things
Shall hang above thee, as on unheard wings
The kestrel hangs above the mouse;20 nor more,
As erst I said, shalt thou gain by my lore		300
Than at the end of life, perchance, a smile
That fate with sight and blindness did beguile
Thine eyes in such sort, that thou knewst the end,
But not the way whereon thy feet did wend
On any day amid the many years,		305
Wherethrough thou waitedst for the flood of tears,
The dreariness that at some halting-place
Waited in turn to change thy smiling face.
Be merry yet! these things shall not be all
That unto thee in this thy life shall fall.		310
AMID these latter words of his, the may
From her fair face had drawn her hands away,
And sat there with fixed eyes, and face grown pale,
As one who sees the corner of the veil,
That hideth strange things, lifted for a while;		315
But when he ceased, she said with a faint smile
And trembling lips: Thanked be thou; well it is!
From thee I get no promise of vain bliss,
And constant joy; a tale I might have had
From flattering lips to make my young heart glad.		320
Yea, have my thanks! yet wise as thou mayst be,
Mayst thou not dimly through these tangles see?
HE answered nought, but sat awhile with eyes
Distraught and sad, and face made overwise
With many a hard vain struggle; but at last,		325
As one who from him a great weight doth cast,
He rose and spake to her: Wild words, fair may,
Now time it is that we were on our way.
Then unto him her visage did she turn,
In either cheek a bright red spot did burn,		330
Her teeth were set hard, and her brow was knit
As though she saw her life and strove with it.
Yet presently but common words she spake,
And bid him bide yet for her father’s sake,
To make him joyful when the boards were laid;		335
But certainly, whatever words she said,
She heeded little; only from her tongue
By use and wont clear in his ears they rung.
Guest answered as before, that he would ride,
Because that night at Thickwood must he bide;		340
So silent now with wandering weary eyes
She watched his men do on their riding guise,
Then led him from the hall but listlessly,
As though she heeded nought where she might be.
So forth he rode, but turned and backward gazed		345
Before his folk the garth-gate latch had raised,
And saw her standing yet anigh the hall,
With her long shadow cast upon its wall,
As with her eyes turned down upon the ground
A long lock of her hair she wound and wound		350
About her hand. Then turning once again,
He passed the gate and shook his bridle-rein.
NOW but a short way had he gone ere he
Beheld a man draw nigh their company,
Who, when they met, with fair words Guest did greet,		355
And said that Olaf Peacock bade him meet
Him and his men, and bid them to his stead:
And well ye wot, O Goodman Guest, he said,
That all day long it snoweth meat and drink
At Herdholt, and the gurgle and the clink		360
Of mead and horns, the harp alone doth still.
Guest laughed, and said: Well, be that as it will,
Get swiftly back, and say that I will come
To look upon the marvels of his home
And hear his goodly voice; but may not bide		365
The night through, for to Thickwood must I ride.
Then the man turned and smote his horse; but they
Rode slowly by the borders of the bay
Upon that fresh and sunny afternoon,
Noting the sea-birds’ cry and surf’s soft tune,		370
Until at last into the dale they came,
And saw the gilt roof-ridge of Herdholt flame
In the bright sunlight over the fresh grass,
O’er which the restless white-woolled lambs did pass
And querulous grey ewes; and wide around,		375
Near and far up the dale, they heard the sound
Of lowing kine, and the blithe neatherd’s voice,
For in those days did all things there rejoice.
Now presently from out the garth they saw
A goodly company unto them draw,		380
And thitherward came Olaf and his men;
So joyous greeting was betwixt them when
They met, and side by side the two chiefs rode,
Right glad at heart, unto the fair abode.
GREAT-LIMBED was Olaf Hauskuldson,21 well knit,		385
And like a chief upon his horse did sit;
Clear-browed and wide-eyed was he, smooth of skin
Through fifty rough years; of his mother’s kin,
The Erse king’s daughter,22 did his short lip tell,
And dark-lashed grey-blue eyes; like a clear bell		390
His voice was yet, despite of waves and wind,
And such a goodly man you scarce might find,
As for his years, in all the northern land.
He held a gold-wrought spear in his right hand,
A chief’s gold ring his left arm did upbear,		395
And as a mighty king’s was all his gear,
Well shaped of Flanders’ cloth, and silk and gold.23
Thus they their way up to the garth did hold,
And Thord the Short,24 Guest’s son, was next thereby,
A brisk man and a brave; so presently		400
They passed the garth-wall, and drew rein before
The new-built hall’s well-carven, fair porch-door,
And Guest laughed out with pleasure, to behold
Its goodly fashion, as the Peacock told
With what huge heed and care the place was wrought,		405
And of the Norway earl’s great wood, he brought
Over the sea;25 then in they went, and Guest
Gazed through the cool dusk, till his eyes did rest
Upon the noble stories, painted fair26
On the high panelling and roof-boards there;		410
For over the high-seat, in his ship there lay
The gold-haired Baldur,27 god of the dead day,
The spring-flowers round his high pile, waiting there
Until the Gods thereto the torch should bear;
And they were wrought on this side and on that,		415
Drawing on towards him. There was Frey,28 and sat
On the gold-brisded boar, who first they say
Ploughed the brown earth, and made it green for Frey.
Then came dark-bearded Niörd;29 and after him
Freyia, thin-robed, about her ankles slim		420
The grey cats playing. In another place
Thor’s30 hammer gleamed o’er Thor’s red-bearded face;
And Heimdall,31 with the gold horn slung behind,
That in the God’s-dusk he shall surely wind,
Sickening all hearts with fear; and last of all		425
Was Odin’s32 sorrow wrought upon the wall,
As slow-paced, weary-faced, he went along,
Anxious with all the tales of woe and wrong
His ravens, Thought and Memory, bring to him.
GUEST looked on these until his eyes grew dim,		430
Then turned about, and had no word to praise,
So wrought in him the thought of those strange days,
Done with so long ago. But furthermore
Upon the other side, the deeds of Thor
Were duly done; the fight in the far sea		435
With him who rings the world’s iniquity,
The Midgard Worm;33 strife in the giants’ land,34
With snares and mockeries thick on either hand,
And dealings with the Evil One35 who brought
Death even amid the Gods; all these well wrought36		440
Did Guest behold, as in a dream, while still
His joyous men the echoing hall did fill
With many-voiced strange clamour, as of these
They talked, and stared on all the braveries.
THEN to the presses in the cloth-room there		445
Did Olaf take him, and showed hangings fair
Brought from the southlands far across the sea,
And English linen and fair napery,
And Flemish cloth; then back into the hall
He led him, and took arms from off the wall,		450
And let the mail-coat rings run o’er his hands,
And strung strange bows brought from the fiery lands.
Then through the butteries he made him pass,
And, smiling, showed what winter stock yet was;
Fish, meal, and casks of wine, and goodly store		455
Of honey, that the bees had grumbled o’er
In clover fields of Kent. Out went they then
And saw in what wise Olaf’s serving-men
Dealt with the beasts, and what fair stock he had,
And how the maids were working blithe and glad		460
Within the women’s chamber. Then at last
Guest smiled, and said: Right fair is all thou hast;
A noble life thou livest certainly,
And in such wise as now, still may it be,
Nor mayst thou know beginning of ill days!		465
Now let it please thee that we go our ways,
E’en as I said, for the sun falleth low.
So be it then, said he. Nor shalt thou go
Giftless henceforth; and I will go with thee
Some little way, for we my sons may see;		470
And fain I am to know how to thine eyes
They seem; because I know thee for most wise,
And that the cloud of time from thee hides less
Than from most men, of woe or happiness.
WITH that he gave command, and men brought forth		475
Two precious things; a hat of goodly worth,
Of fur of Russia, with a gold chain wound
Thrice round it, and a coin of gold that bound
The chain’s end in the front, and on the same
A Greek king’s head was wrought,37 of mighty fame		480
In olden time; this unto Guest he gave,
And smiled to see his deep-set eyes and grave
Gleam out with joy thereover: but to Thord,
Guest’s son, he gave a well-adorned sword
And English-’broidered belt; and then once more		485
They mounted by the goodly carven door,
And to their horses gat all Guest’s good men,
And forth they rode toward Laxriver: but when
They had just overtopped a low knoll’s brow,
Olaf cried out: There play hot hearts enow		490
In the cold waves! Then Guest looked, and afar
Beheld the tide play on the sandy bar
About the stream’s mouth, as the sea-waves rushed
In over it and back the land-stream pushed;
But in the dark wide pool mid foam-flecks white,		495
Beneath the slanting afternoon sunlight,
He saw white bodies sporting, and the air
Light from the south-west up the slopes did bear
Sound of their joyous cries as there they played.
THEN said he: Goodman, thou art well apaid		500
Of thy fair sons, if they shall deal as well
With earth as water. Nought there is to tell
Of great deeds at their hands as yet, said he;
But look you, how they note our company!
For waist-high from the waves one rose withal,		505
And sent a shrill voice like a sea-mew’s call
Across the river, then all turned toward land,
And beat the waves to foam with foot and hand,
And certes kept no silence; up the side
They scrambled, and about the shore spread wide		510
Seeking their raiment, and the yellowing sun Upon the line of moving bodies shone,
As running here and there with laugh and shout
They flung the linen and grey cloth about,
Yet spite of all their clamour clad them fast.		515
So Guest and Olaf o’er the green slopes passed
At sober pace, the while the other men
Raced down to meet the swimmers. Many then
There are, who have no part or lot in thee
Among these lads? said Guest. Yea, such there be,		520
Said Olaf, sons of dale-dwellers hereby;
But Kiartan rules the swimming. Earnestly
Guest gazed upon the lads as they drew near,
And scarcely now he seemed the words to hear
That Olaf spake, who talked about his race		525
And how they first had dwelling in that place;
But at the last Guest turned his horse about
Up stream, and drew rein, yet, as one in doubt,
Looked o’er his shoulder at the youths withal;
But nought said Olaf, doubting what should fall		530
From those wise lips. Then Guest spake: Who are these?
Tell me their names; yon lad upon his knees,
Turning the blue cloak over with his hands,
While over him a sturdy fellow stands,
Talking belike? Hauskuld, my youngest son,		535
Said Olaf, kneels there, but the standing one
Is An the Black,38 my house-carle, a stout man.
Good, Guest said; name the one who e’en now ran
Through upraised hands a glittering silver chain,
And, as we look now, gives it back again		540
Unto a red-haired youth, tall, fair, and slim.
Haldor it was who gave the chain to him,
And Helgi took it, Olaf said. Then Guest:
There kneeleth one in front of all the rest,
Less clad than any there, and hides from me		545
Twain who are sitting nigher to the sea?
Then Olaf looked with shaded eyes and said:
Steinthor, the sluggard, is it; by my head
He hideth better men! nay, look now, look!
THEN toward the stream his spear-butt Olaf shook,		550
As Steinthor rose, and gat somewhat aside,
And showed the other twain he first did hide.
On a grey stone anigh unto the stream
Sat a tall youth whose golden head did gleam
In the low sun; half covered was his breast,		555
His right arm bare as yet; a sword did rest
Upon his knees, and some half-foot of it
He from the sheath had drawn; a man did sit
Upon the grass before him; slim was he,
Black-haired and tall, and looked up smilingly		560
Into the other’s face, with one hand laid
Upon the sword-sheath nigh the broad grey blade,
And seemed as though he listened. Then spake Guest:
No need, O friend, to ask about the rest,
Since I have seen these; for without a word		565
Kiartan I name the man who draws the sword
From out the sheath, and low down in the shade
Before him Bodli Thorleikson is laid.
But tell me of that sword, who bore it erst?
THEN Olaf laughed: Some call that sword accursed;		570
Bodli now bears it, which the Eastlander
Geirmund, my daughter’s husband, once did wear.
Hast thou not heard the tale? he won the maid
By my wife’s word, wherefor with gold he paid,
Or so I deemed; but whereas of good kin		575
The man was, and the woman hot herein,
I stood not in the way; well, but his love,
Whate’er it was, quenched not his will to rove;
He left her, but would nowise leave the sword,
And so she helped herself, and for reward		580
Got that, and a curse with it,39 babblers say.
Let see if it prevail ‘gainst my good day!
GUEST answered nought at all, his head was turned
Eastward, away from where the low sun burned
Above the swimmers. Olaf spake once more:		585
Wise friend, thou thus hast heard their names told o’er,
How thinkest thou? hast thou the heart to tell
Which in the years to come shall do right well?
Guest spake not for a while, and then he said,
But yet not turning any more his head:		590
Surely of this at least thou wouldst be glad,
If Kiartan while he lived more glory had
Than any man now waxing in the land.
THEN even as he spoke he raised his hand
And smote his horse, and rode upon his way		595
With no word more; neither durst Olaf stay
His swift departing, doubting of his mood;
For though indeed the word he spake was good,
Yet some vague fear he seemed to leave behind,
And Olaf scarce durst seek, lest he should find		600
Some ill thing lurking by his glory’s side.
But after Guest his son and men did ride,
And forth to Thickwood with no stay they went.
But now, the journey and the day nigh spent,
Unto his father as they rode turned Thord,		605
With mind to say to him some common word,
But stared astonished, for the great tears ran
Over the wrinkled cheeks of the old man,
Yea, and adown his beard, nor shame had he
That Thord in such a plight his face should see;		610
At last he spake: Thou wonderest, O my son,
To see the tears fall down from such an one
As I am; folly is it in good sooth
Bewraying inward grief; but pain and ruth
Work in me so, I may not hold my peace		615
About the woes that, as thy years increase,
Thou shalt behold fall on the country-side;
But me the grey cairn40 ere that day shall hide.
Fair men and women have I seen to-day,
Yet I weep not because these pass away,		620
Sad though that is, but rather weep for this,
That they know not upon their day of bliss
How their worn hearts shall fail them ere they die;
How sore the weight of woe on them shall lie,
Which no sigh eases, wherewithal no hope,		625
No pride, no rage, shall make them fit to cope.
Remember what folk thou this day hast seen,
And in what joyous steads thy feet have been,
Then think of this, that men may look to see
Love slaying love, and ruinous victory,		630
And truth called lies, and kindness turned to hate,
And prudence sowing seeds of all debate!
Son, thou shalt live to hear when I am dead
Of Bodli standing over Kiartan’s head,
His friend, his foster-brother, and his bane,		635
That he in turn e’en such an end may gain.
Woe worth the while! forget it, and be blind!
Look not before thee! the road left behind,
Let that be to thee as a tale well told
To make thee merry when thou growest old!		640
SO spake he; but by this time had they come
Unto the wood that lay round Armod’s home,
So on the tree-beset and narrow way
They entered now, and left behind the day;
And whatso things thenceforth to Guest befell,		645
No more of him the story hath to tell.

Gudrun, twice Wedded, Widowed, and Wooed of Kiartan.		646A
O wore the time away, nor long it was
Ere somewhat of Guest’s forecast came to pass.
Drawn by her beauty, Thorvald41 wooed Gudrun;
Saying withal that he was such an one		650
As fainer was to wed a wife than lands,
Readier by far to give forth from his hands
That which he had, than take aught of her kin.
And in such wise he did not fail to win
His fond desire, and, therewith, wretched life.		655
For she who deemed nought worth so much of strife
As to say No for ever, being wed, found
How the chain galled whereto she now was bound,
And more and more began to look on him
With hate that would be scorn, with eyes grown dim		660
For hope of change that came not, and lips set
For ever with the stifling of regret.
Coarse Thorvald was, and rough and passionate,
And little used on change of days to wait;
And as she ever gloomed before his eyes,		665
Rage took the place of the first grieved surprise,
Wherewith he found that he, who needs must love,
Could get no love in turn, nay, nor e’en move
Her heart to kindness; then as nothing strange,
Still with sad loathing looks, she took the change		670
She noted in him, as if all were done
Between them, and no deed beneath the sun
That he could do would now be worse to her.
JUDGE if the hot heart of the man could bear
Such days as these! Upon a time it fell		675
That he, most fain indeed to love her well,
Would she but turn to him, had striven sore
To gain her love, and yet gat nothing more
Than a faint smile of scorn, ‘neath eyes whose gaze
Seemed fixed for ever on the hoped-for days		680
Wherein he no more should have part or lot;
Then mingled hate with love in him, and hot
His heart grew past all bearing; round about
He stared, as one who hears the eager shout
Of closing foes, when he to death is brought;		685
In his fierce heart thought crowded upon thought,
Till he saw not and heard not, but rose up
And cast upon the floor his half-filled cup,
And crying out, smote her upon the face;
Then strode adown the hushed and crowded place		690
(For meal-time was it) till he reached the door;
Then gat his horse, and over hill and moor,
Scarce knowing where he went, rode furiously.
BUT in the hall, folk turned them round to see
What thing Gudrun would do, who for a while		695
Sat pale and silent, with a deadly smile
Upon her lips; then called to where she sat
Folk from the hall, and talked of this and that
Gaily, as one who hath no care or pain:
Yea, when the goodman gat him back again,		700
She met him changed, so that he well-nigh thought
That better days his hasty blow had brought.
And still as time wore on, day after day
Wondering, he saw her seeming blithe and gay;
So he, though sore misdoubting him of this,		705
Took what he might of pleasure and of bliss,
And put thought back. So time wore till the spring,
And then the goodman rode unto the Thing,
Not over light of heart, or free from fear,
Though his wife’s face at parting was all clear		710
Of frown or sullenness; but he being gone,
Next morn Gudrun rode with one man alone
Forth unto Bathstead; there her tale she told,
And as in those days law strained not to hold
Folk whom love held not, or some common tie,		715
So her divorce was set forth speedily,
For mighty were her kin. And now once more
At Bathstead did she dwell, free as before,
And, smiling, heard of how her husband fared
When by the Hill of Laws42 he stood and heard		720
The words, that he belike half thought to hear,
Which took from him a thing once held so dear,
That all was nought thereby. Now wise ones tell
That there was one who used to note her well
Within her husband’s hall, and many say		725
That talk of love they had before the day
That she went back to Bathstead; how that was
I know not surely; but it came to pass
That scarcely had abated the first rage
Of her old mate; and scarce less like a cage		730
Of red-hot iron ‘gan to feel his life,
Ere this man, Thord,43 had won Gudrun to wife;
So, since the man was brisk and brave and fair,
And she had known him when her days were drear,
And turned with hope and longing to his eyes,		735
Kind amid hard things, in most joyous wise
Their life went, and she deemed she loved him well;
And the strange things that Guest did once foretell,
Which morn and noon and eve she used to set
Before her eyes, she now would fain forget;		740
Alas! forgotten or remembered, still
Midst joy or sorrow fate shall work its will;
Three months they lived in joy and peace enow,
Till on a June night did the south-west blow
The rainy rack o’er Gudrun’s sleeping head,		745
While in the firth was rolled her husband dead
Toward the black cliffs; drowned was he, says my tale,
By wizard’s spells amidst a summer gale.
THEN back to Bathstead Gudrun came again,
To sit with fierce heart brooding o’er her pain,		750
While life and time seemed made to torture her,
That she the utmost of all pain might bear,
To please she knew not whom; and yet mid this,
And all her raging for the vanished bliss,
Would Guest’s words float up to her memory,		755
And quicken cold life; then would she cast by
As something vile the comfort that they brought,
Yet, none the less, still stronger grew that thought,
Unheeded, and unchidden therefore, round
The weary wall of woe her life that bound.		760
SO wore the months; spring with its longings came,
And now in every mouth was Kiartan’s name,
And daily now must Gudrun’s dull ears bear
Tales of the prowess of his youth to hear,
While in his cairn forgotten lay her love.44		765
For this man, said they, all men’s hearts did move,
Nor yet might envy cling to such an one,
So far beyond all dwellers ‘neath the sun;
Great was he, yet so fair of face and limb
That all folk wondered much, beholding him,		770
How such a man could be; no fear he knew,
And all in manly deeds he could outdo;
Fleet-foot, a swimmer strong, an archer good,
Keen-eyed to know the dark waves’ changing mood;
Sure on the crag, and with the sword so skilled,		775
That when he played therewith the air seemed filled
With light of gleaming blades; therewith was he
Of noble speech, though says not certainly
My tale, that aught of his be left behind
With rhyme and measure deftly interwined;		780
Well skilled was he, too, in the craftsman’s lore
To deal with iron mid the stithy’s45 roar,
And many a sword-blade knew his heavy hand.
Shortly, if he amid ten kings should stand,
All men would think him worthier man than they;		785
And yet withal it was his daily way
To be most gentle both of word and deed,
And ever folk would seek him in their need,
Nor was there any child but loved him well.
SUCH things about him ever would men tell,		790
Until their hearts swelled in them as they thought
How great a glory to their land was brought,
Seeing that this man was theirs. Such love and praise
Kiartan’s beginning had in those fair days,
While Gudrun sat sick-eyed, and hearkened this,		795
Still brooding on the late-passed days of bliss,
And thinking still how worthless such things were.
BUT now when midsummer was drawing near,
As on an eve folk sat within the hall,
Man unto man far off did they hear call,		800
And then the sound of horse-hoofs; Oswif rose,
And went into the porch to look for those
Who might be coming, and at last folk heard,
Close to the porch, the new-come travellers’ word,
And turned to meet them; Gudrun sat alone		805
High on the daïs when all folk were gone,
And playing with her golden finger-rings,
Set all her heart to think of bygone things,
Till hateful seemed all hopes, all thoughts of men.
YET did she turn unto their voices, when		810
Folk back again into the hall did crowd,
Torch-litten now, laughing and talking loud;
Then as the guests adown the long hall drew,
Olaf the Peacock presently she knew,
Hand in hand with her father; but behind		815
Came two young men; then rose up to her mind,
Against her will, the tales of Kiartan told,
Becaused she deemed the one, whose hair of gold
In the new torch-light gleamed, was even he,
And that the black-haired high-browed one must be		820
Bodli, the son of Thorleik; but with that,
Up to the place where listlessly she sat
They came, and on her feet she now must stand
To welcome them; then Olaf took her hand,
And looked on her with eyes compassionate,		825
And said: O Gudrun, ill has been thy fate,
But surely better days shall soon be thine,
For not for nought do eyes like thine eyes shine
Upon the hard world; thou shalt bless us yet
In many a way, and all thy woes forget.		830
SHE answered nought, but drew her hand away,
And heavier yet the weight upon her lay
That thus men spake of her. But, turning round,
Kiartan upon the other hand she found,
Gazing upon her with wild hungry eyes		835
And parted lips; then did strange joy surprise
Her lisdess heart, and changed her old world was;
Ere she had time to think, all woe did pass
Away from her, and all her life grew sweet,
And scarce she felt the ground beneath her feet,		840
Or knew who stood around, or in what place
Of heaven or earth she was; soft grew her face;
In tears that fell not yet, her eyes did swim,
As, trembling, she reached forth her hand to him,
And with the shame of love her smooth cheeks burned,		845
And her lips quivered, as if sore they yearned
For words they had not learned, and might not know
Till night and loneliness their form should show.
BUT Kiartan’s face a happy smile did light,
Kind, loving, confident; good hap and might		850
Seemed in his voice as now he spake, and said:
They say the dead for thee will ne’er be dead,
And on this eve I thought in sooth to have
Labour enow to draw thee from the grave
Of the old days; but thou rememberest,		855
Belike, days earlier yet, that men call best
Of all days, when as younglings erst we met.
Thou thinkest now thou never didst forget
This face of mine, since now most certainly
The eyes are kind wherewith thou lookst on me.		860
A shade came o’er her face, but quickly passed.
Yea, said she, if such pleasant days might last,
As when we wandered laughing hand in hand46
Along the borders of the shell-strewn strand.
SHE wondered at the sound of her own voice,		865
She chid her heart that it must needs rejoice,
She marvelled why her soul with fear was filled;
But quickly every questioning was stilled
As he sat down by her. Old Oswif smiled
To see her sorrow in such wise beguiled,		870
And Olaf laughed for joy, and many a thought
Of happy loves to Bodli’s heart was brought
As by his friend he sat, and saw his face
So bright with bliss; and all the merry place
Ran over with goodwill that sight to see,		875
And the hours passed in great festivity.
At last beneath the glimmer of the moon,
Fanned by the soft sea-wind that tempers June,
Homeward they rode, sire, son, and foster-son,
Kiartan half joyful that the eve was done,		880
And he had leisure for himself to weave
Tales of the joyful way that from that eve
Should lead to perfect bliss; Bodli no less
Rejoicing in his fellow’s happiness,
Dreaming of such-like joy to come to him,		885
And Olaf, thinking how that nowise dim
The glory of his line through these should grow.
BUT while in peace these through the night did go,
Vexed by new thoughts and old thoughts, Gudrun lay
Upon her bed: she watched him go away,		890
And her heart sank within her, and there came,
With pain of that departing, pity and shame,
That struggling with her love yet made it strong,
That called her longing blind, yet made her long
Yet more for more desire, what seeds soe’er		895
Of sorrow, hate, and ill were hidden there.
So with her strong heart wrestled love, till she
Sank ‘neath the hand of sleep, and quietly
Beneath the new-risen sun she lay at rest,
The bed-gear fallen away from her white breast,		900
One arm deep buried in her hair, one spread
Abroad, across the ‘broideries of the bed,
A smile upon her lips, and yet a tear,
Scarce dry, but stayed anigh her dainty ear;
How fair, how soft, how kind she seemed that morn,		905
Ere she anew to love and life was born.
A LITTLE space to part these twain indeed
Was seven short miles of hill and moor and mead,
And soon the threshold of the Bathstead hall
Knew nigh as much of Kiartan’s firm footfall		910
As of the sweep of Gudrun’s kirtle-hem,47
And sweet past words to tell life grew to them;
Sweet the awaking in the morn, when lay
Below the hall the narrow winding way,
The friend that led, the foe that kept apart;		915
And sweet the joyful flutter of the heart
Anigh the door, ere clinging memory
Gave place to rapturous sight, and eye met eye;
Sweet the long hours of converse, when each word
Like fairest music still seemed doubly heard,		920
Caught by the ear and clung to by the heart;
Yea, even most sweet the minute they must part,
Because the veil, that so oft time must draw
Before them, fell, and clear, without a flaw,
Their hearts saw love, that moment they did stand		925
Ere lip left lip, or hand fell down from hand;
Yea, that passed o’er, still sweet and bitter-sweet
The yearning pain that stayed the lingering feet
Upon the threshold and the homeward way;
And silent chamber covered up from day		930
For thought of words unsaid; ah, sweet the night
Amidst its dreams of manifold delight!
AND yet sometimes pangs of perplexed pain
Would torture Gudrun, as she thought again
On Guest and his forecasting of her dream;		935
And through the dark of days to come would gleam
Fear, like a flame of hell shot suddenly
Up through spring meadows ‘twixt fair tree and tree,
Though little might she see the flaws whereof
That past dream warned her, midst her dream of love;		940
And whatso things her eyes refused to see,
Made wise by fear, none others certainly
Might see in love so seeming smooth as this,
That looked to all men like the door of bliss
Unto the twain, and to the country-side		945
Good hope and joy, that thus so fast were tied
The bonds ‘twixt two such houses as were these,
And folk before them saw long years of peace.
OF Bodli Thorleikson, the story says
That he, o’ershadowed still by Kiartan’s praise,		950
Was second but to him; although, indeed,
He, who perchance the love of men did need
More than his fellow, less their hearts might move;
Yet fair to all men seemed the trust and love
Between the friends, and fairer unto none		955
Than unto Olaf, who scarce loved his son
More than his brother’s son; now seemed it too,
That this new love closer the kinsmen drew
Than e’en before, and whatso either did
The other knew, and scarce their thoughts seemed hid		960
One from the other. So as day by day
Went Kiartan unto Bathstead, still the way
Seemed shorter if his friend beside him rode;
Then might he ease his soul of that great load
Of love unsatisfied, by words, and take		965
Mockeries in turn, grown sweet for that name’s sake,
They wrapped about, or glow with joy to hear
The praises of the heart he held so dear,
And laugh with joy and pleasure of his life
To note how Bodli’s heart withal seemed rife		970
With love that his love kindled, though as yet
It wandered, on no heart of woman set.
So Bodli, nothing loth, went many a day,
Whenso they would, to make the lovers gay,
Whenso they would, to get him gone, that these		975
E’en with such yearning words their souls might please
As must be spoken, but sound folly still
To aught but twain, because no tongue hath skill
To tell their meaning: kinder, Kiartan deemed,
Grew Bodli day by day, and ever seemed		980
Well-nigh as happy as the loving twain,
And unto Bodli life seemed nought but gain,
And fair the days were. On a day it fell,
As the three talked, they ‘gan in sport to tell
The names o’er of such women, good and fair,		985
As in the land that tide unwedded were,
Naming a mate for Bodli, and still he
Must laugh and shake his head. Then over sea,
Quoth Kiartan, mayhap such an one there is
That thou mayst deem the getting of her bliss;		990
Go forth and win her with the rover’s sword!
THEN Bodli laughed, and cast upon the board
The great grey blade and ponderous iron hilt,
All unadorned, the yoke-fellow of guilt,
And said: Go, sword, and fetch me home a bride!		995
But here in Iceland have I will to bide
With those that love me, till the fair days change.
THEN Gudrun said: Things have there been more strange,
Than that we three should sit above the oars,
The while on even keel ‘twixt the low shores		1000
Our long-ship breasts the Thames flood, or the Seine.
Methinks in biding here is little gain,
Cooped up in this cold corner of the world.
THEN up sprang Kiartan, seized the sword, and hurled
Its weight aloft, and caught it by the hilt		1005
As down it fell, and cried: Would that the tilt
Were even now being rigged above the ship!
Would that we stood to see the oars’ first dip
In the green waves! nay, rather would that we
Above the bulwarks now saw Italy,		1010
With all its beacons flaring! Sheathe thy sword,
Fair foster-brother, till I say the word
That draws it forth; and, Gudrun, never fear
That thou a word or twain of me shalt hear,
E’en if the birds must bear them o’er the sea.		1015
HER eyes were fixed upon him lovingly
As thus he spake, and Bodli smiling saw
Her hand to Kiartan’s ever nigher draw;
Then he rose up and sheathed the sword, and said:
Nay, rather if I be so hard to wed,		1020
I yet must think of roving, so I go
To talk to Oswif, all the truth to know
About the news the chapmen carried here,
That Olaf Tryggvison48 his sword doth rear
‘Gainst Hacon49 and his fortune. Therewithal		1025
He laughed, and gat him swiftly from the hall,
And found the old man, nor came back again
Until through sun and shadow had the twain
Sat long together, and the hall ‘gan fill.
Then did he deem his friend sat somewhat still,		1030
And something strange he saw in Gudrun’s eyes
As she gazed on him; nor did fail to rise
In his own heart the shadow of a shade,
That made him deem the world less nobly made,
And yet was like to pleasure. On the way		1035
Back home again, not much did Kiartan say,
And what he spake was well-nigh mockery
Of speech, wherewith he had been wont to free
His heart from longings grown too sweet to bear.
But time went on, and still the days did wear		1040
With little seeming change; if love grew cold
In Kiartan’s heart one day, the next o’er bold,
O’er frank, he noted not who might be by,
When he unto his love was drawing nigh.
Gudrun gloomed not; as merry as before		1045
Did Bodli come and go ‘twixt dais and door.
Only perchance a little oftener they
Fell upon talk of the fair lands that lay
Across the seas, and sometimes would a look
Cross Gudrun’s face that seemed a half rebuke		1050
To Kiartan, as all over-eagerly
He talked about the life beyond the sea,
As thereof he had heard the stories tell.
Then Bodli sometimes into musings fell,
So dreamlike, that he might not tell his thought		1055
When he again to common life was brought.
SO passed the seasons, but in autumn-tide
The foster-brothers did to Burgfirth50 ride,
Unto a ship new come to White-river;51
Talk with the outland chapmen had they there,		1060
And Kiartan bade the captain in the end
Back into Herdholt as his guest to wend;
And nothing loth he went with him; and now
Great tidings thereupon began to show
Of Hacon slain, his son thrust from the land,		1065
And Norway in fair peace beneath the hand
Of Olaf Tryggvison; nor did he fail
To tell about the king full many a tale,
And praise him for the noblest man that e’er
Had held the tiller, or cast forth the spear:		1070
And Kiartan listened eagerly, yet seemed
As if amid the tale he well-nigh dreamed;
And now withal, when he to Bathstead went,
Less than before would talk of his intent
To see the outlands to his listening love;		1075
And when at whiles she spake to him thereof,
Lightly he answered her, and smile or kiss
Would change their talk to idle words of bliss:
Less of her too to Bodli now he spake,
Although this other (for her beauty’s sake,		1080
He told himself) to hear of her was fain;
And he, for his part, sometimes felt a pain,
As though the times were changing over fast,
When Kiartan let the word of his go past
Unnoted, that in other days belike		1085
Had nowise failed from out his heart to strike
The sparks of lovesome praise. But now Yule-tide
Was come at last, and folk from far and wide
Went to their neighbours’ feasts, and as wont was
All Bathstead unto Herdholt hall did pass,		1090
And the feast lasted long, and all folk gat
Things that their souls desired, and Gudrun sat
In the high-seat beside the goodwife there.
BUT ever now her wary ears did hear
The new king’s name bandied from mouth to mouth,		1095
And talk of those new-comers from the south;
And through her anxious heart a sharp pain smote
As Kiartan’s face she eagerly gan note,
And sighed; because, leaned forward on the board,
He sat, with eager face hearkening each word,		1100
Nor speaking aught; then long with hungry eyes
She sat regarding him, nor yet would rise
A word unto her lips: and all the while
Bodli gazed on them with a fading smile
About his lips, and eyes that ever grew		1105
More troubled still, until he hardly knew
What folk were round about. So passed away
Yule-tide at Herdholt, cold day following day,
Till spring was gone, and Gudrun had not failed
To win both many days where joy prevailed,		1110
And many a pang of fear; till so it fell
That in the summer, whereof now we tell,
Upon a day in blithe mood Kiartan came
To Bathstead, not as one who looks for blame,
And Bodli with him, sad-eyed, silent, dull,		1115
Noted of Gudrun, who no less was full
Of merry talk, yea, more than her wont was.
But as the hours toward eventide did pass,
Said Kiartan: Love, make we the most of bliss,
For though, indeed, not the last day this is		1120
Whereon we twain shall meet in such a wise,
Yet shalt thou see me soon in fighting guise,
And hear the horns blow up our Loth to go,
For in White-river. Is it even so,
She broke in, that these feet abide behind?		1125
Men call me hard, but thou hast known me kind;
Men call me fair, my body give I thee;
Men call me dainty, let the rough salt sea
Deal with me as it will,52 so thou be near!
Let me share glory with thee, and take fear		1130
That thy heart throws aside! Hand joined to hand,
As one who prays, and trembling, did she stand,
But up and down the hall-floor Bodli paced
With clanking sword, and brows set in a frown,
And scarce less pale than she. The sun low down		1135
Shone through the narrow windows of the hall,
And on the gold upon her breast did fall,
And gilt her slim clasped hands. There Kiartan stood,
Gazing upon her in strange wavering mood,
Now longing sore to clasp her to his heart,		1140
And pray her, too, that they might ne’er depart,
Now well-nigh ready to say such a word
As cutteth love across as with a sword;
So fought love in him with the craving vain
The love of all the wondering world to gain,		1145
Though such he named it not. And so at last
His eyes upon the pavement did he cast,
And knit his brow as though some word to say;
Then fell her outstretched hands, she cried: Nay, nay!
Thou needst not speak, I will not ask thee twice		1150
To take a gift, a good gift, and be wise;
I know my heart, thou knowst it not; farewell,
Maybe that other tales the Skalds53 shall tell
Than of thy great deeds. Still her face was pale,
As with a sound betwixt a sigh and wail		1155
She brushed by Bodli, who, aghast, did stand
With open mouth, and vainly stretched-out hand;
But Kiartan followed her a step or two,
Then stayed, bewildered by his sudden woe;
But even therewith, as nigh the door she was,		1160
She turned back suddenly, and straight did pass,
Trembling all over, to his side, and said,
With streaming eyes: Let not my words be weighed
As a man’s words are! O, fair love, go forth,
And come thou back again, made no more worth		1165
Unto this heart; but worthier it may be
To the dull world thy worth that cannot see.
Go forth, and let the rumour of thee run
Through every land that is beneath the sun;
For know I not, indeed, that everything		1170
Thou winnest at the hands of lord or king
Is surely mine, as thou art mine at last?
THEN round about his neck her arms she cast,
And wept right sore, and, touched with love and shame,
Must Kiartan offer to leave hope of fame,		1175
And noble life; but midst her tears she smiled:
Go forth, my love, and be thou not beguiled
By woman’s tears, I spake but as a fool;
We of the north wrap not our men in wool,
Lest they should die at last; nay, be not moved,		1180
To think that thou a faint-heart fool hast loved!
For now his tears fell too; he said: My sweet,
Ere the ship sails we yet again shall meet
To say farewell; a little while, and then,
When I come back to hold my place mid men,		1185
With honour won for thee: how fair it is
To think on now, the sweetness and the bliss!
SOME little words she said no pen could write;
Upon his face she laid her fingers white,
And, midst of kisses, with his hair did play;		1190
Then, smiling through her tears, she went away,
Nor heeded Bodli aught. Men say the twain,
Kiartan and Gudrun, never met again
In loving wise; that each to each no more
Their eyes looked kind on this side death’s dark shore,		1195
That midst their tangled life they must forget,
Till they were dead, that e’er their lips had met.
FOR ere the day that Kiartan meant to come
And kiss his love once more within her home,
The south-east wind, that had stayed hitherto		1200
Their sailing, changed, and north-west now it blew;
And Kálf,54 the captain, urged them to set forth,
Because that tide the wind loved not the north,
And now the year grew late for long delay.
Night was it when he spake; at dawn next day,		1205
Before the door at Herdholt, might men see,
Armed, and in saddle, a goodly company:
Kiartan, bright-eyed and flushed, restless withal,
As on familiar things his eyes did fall,
Yet eager to be gone, and smiling still,		1210
For pride and hope and love his soul did fill,
As of his coming life he thought, and saw
In all the days that were to be, no flaw.
About him were his fellows, ten such men
As in the land had got no equals then;		1215
By him his foster-brother sat, as true
As was the steel the rover’s hand erst drew;
There stood his father, flushed with joy and pride,55
By the fair-carven door that did abide,
Till he fulfilled of glory came again		1220
To take his bride before the eyes of men.
NOW skipper Kálf, clad in the Peacock’s gift,
Unto the south his gold-wrought spear did lift,
And Kiartan stooped and kissed his sire. A shout
Rose from the home-men, as they turned about,		1225
And trotted jingling down the grassy knoll.
Silent awhile rode Kiartan, till his soul,
Filled with a many thoughts, in speech o’erflowed,
And unto Bodli, who beside him rode,
He fell to talk of all that they should do		1230
In the fair countries that they journeyed to.
Not Norway only, or the western lands,
In time to come, he said, might know their hands,
But fairer places, folk of greater fame,
Where neath the shadow of the Roman name		1235
Sat the Greek king,56 gold-clad, with bloodless sword.
But as he spoke Bodli said here a word
And there a word, and knew not what he said,
Nay, scarcely knew what wild thoughts filled his head,
What longings burned, like a still quickening flame,		1240
Within his sad heart. So that night they came
To Burgfirth and the place upon the strand
Where by the ready ship the tents did stand,
And there they made good cheer, and slept that night,
But on the morrow, with the earliest light,		1245
They gat a ship-board, and, all things being done,
Upon a day when low clouds hid the sun,
And ‘neath the harsh north-west down drave the rain,
They drew the gangway to the ship again,
And ran the oars out. There did Kiartan stand		1250
By Kálf, who took the tiller in his hand
And conned the rising bows; but when at last
Toward the grey sky the wet oar-blades were cast,
And space ‘twixt stern and land ‘gan widen now,
Kiartan cried out and ran forth to the prow,		1255
While rope and block yet beat confusedly,
And shook his drawn sword o’er the dark grey sea;
And step for step behind him Bodli went,
And on his sword-hilt, with a like intent,
He laid his hand, and half drew from its sheath		1260
The rover’s sword; then with a deep-drawn breath,
Most like a sigh, he thrust it back again.
His face seemed sharpened with a sudden pain;
He turned him round the driving scud to face,
His breast heaved, and he staggered in his place,		1265
And stretched his strong arms forth with a low moan
Unto the hidden hills, ‘neath which alone
Sat Gudrun, sat his love, and therewithal
Down did the bows into the black trough fall,
Up rose the oar-song, through the waters grey		1270
Unto the south the good ship took her way.

The Dealings of King Olaf Tryggvison with the Icelanders.		1271A
OW tells the tale that safe to Drontheim57 came
Kiartan with all his folk, and the great fame
Of Olaf Tryggvison then first they knew,
When thereof spake the townsmen to the crew;		1275
But therewithal yet other news they heard,
Which seemed to one and all a heavy word;
How that the king, from the old customs turned,
Now with such zeal toward his new faith burned,
That thereby nothing else to him was good		1280
But that all folk should bow before the Rood.58
When Kiartan’s coming thitherward betid,
Three ships of Iceland lay there in the Nid,59
Manned by stout men enow; downcast were these
Who had been glad enow the king to please,		1285
And save their goods, and lives perchance, withal,
But knew not how their forefathers to call
Souls damned for ever and ever; yet they said
That matters drew so swiftly to a head,
That when they met the king he passed them by		1290
With head turned round, or else with threatening eye
Scowled on them: And when Yule-tide comes,60 said they,
We look to have from him a settled day
When we must change our faith or bide the worst.
Well, Kiartan said, this king is not the first		1295
To think the world is made for him alone;
Who knows how things will go ere all is done?
God wot, I wish my will done even as he;
I hate him not. And therewith merrily
From out the ship the men of Herdholt went;		1300
A bright eve was it, and the good town sent
Thin smoke and blue straight upward through the air,
For it had rained of late, and here and there
Sauntered the townsfolk, man and maid and child;
Where street met quay a fiddle’s sound beguiled		1305
A knot of listening folk, who no less turned
And stared hard as the westering sunbeams burned
Upon the steel and scarlet of that band,
Whom, as ye well may wot, no niggard hand
Had furnished forth; so up the long street then,		1310
Gazing about, well gazed at, went the men,
A goodly sight. But e’en as they would wend
About the corner where that street had end,
High up in air nearby ‘gan ring a chime
Whose sweetness seemed to bless e’en that sweet time		1315
With double blessing. Kiartan stayed his folk
When first above his head that sound outbroke,
And listened smiling,61 till he heard a sigh
Close by him, and met Bodli’s wandering eye,
That fell before his. Softly Kiartan spake:		1320
Now would Gudrun were here e’en for the sake
Of this sweet sound! nought have I heard so sweet.
SO on they passed, and turned about the street,
And saw the great church62 cast its shadow down
Upon the low roofs of the goodly town,		1325
And yet awhile they stayed their marvelling;
But therewith heard behind them armour ring,