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

  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,

  Riding, as still his wont is, from the west

  Unto the Thing, and this is just the day

  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.

  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

  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;

  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

  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,

  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,

  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,

  A white-haired elder clad in kirtle red:

  “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

  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,

  But unto Thickwood must I go to-night

  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,

  ‘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

  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

  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

  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,

  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?”

  She spake low to him:

  “So is it, but of these the most wax dim

  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

  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

  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

  The cursed 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:

  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

  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.”

  “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

  I had therefor was not so much above

  That wherewithal 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

  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

  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

  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,

  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.”

  “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

  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

  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 neat-herd’s song

  As o’er the hard white snow he went along

  Unto the byre, 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,

  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,

  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,

  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

  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

  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,

  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.”

  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,

  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

  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,

  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

  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

  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

  For dead men, than we deemed of heretofore,

  And that this man full well shall know that lore.

  But whereas blood from out the ring did run,

  By the sword’s edge his life shall be foredone:

  Then for the flaws — see thou thyself to these!

  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 —

  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 he spend in strife

  With the wild waves of Hwammfirth, and in vain,

  For him too shall the white sea-goddess gain.

  “So is thy dream areded; but these things

  Shall hang above thee, as on unheard wings

  The kestrel hangs above the mouse; nor more

  As erst I said shalt thou gain by my lore

  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,

  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.”

  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;

  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 —

  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 over wise

  With many a hard vain struggle; but at last

  As one who from him a great weight doth cast,

  He rose and snake 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,

  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;

  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;

  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

  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

  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,

  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

  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

  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,

  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,

  Near and far up the dale, they heard the sound

  Of lowing kine, and the blithe neat-herd’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,

  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.

 

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