CHAPTER V—CONCERNING THE HALL-SUN

When the warriors and the others had gone down to the mead, the Hall-Sun was left standing on the Hill of Speech, and she stood there till she saw the host in due array going on its ways dark and bright and beautiful; then she made as if to turn aback to the Great Roof; but all at once it seemed to her as if something held her back, as if her will to move had departed from her, and that she could not put one foot before the other. So she lingered on the Hill, and the quenched candle fell from her hand, and presently she sank adown on the grass and sat there with the face of one thinking intently. Yet was it with her that a thousand thoughts were in her mind at once and no one of them uppermost, and images of what had been and what then was flickered about in her brain, and betwixt them were engendered images of things to be, but unstable and not to be trowed in. So sat the Hall-Sun on the Hill of Speech lost in a dream of the day, whose stories were as little clear as those of a night-dream.

But as she sat musing thus, came to her a woman exceeding old to look on, whom she knew not as one of the kindred or a thrall; and this carline greeted her by the name of Hall-Sun and said:

“Hail, Hall-Sun of the Markmen! how fares it now with theeWhen the whelps of the Woodbeast wander with the Leafage of the TreeAll up the Mirkwood-water to seek what they shall find,The oak-boles of the battle and the war-wood stark and blind?”

Then answered the maiden:

“It fares with me, O mother, that my soul would fain go forthTo behold the ways of the battle, and the praise of the warriors’ worth.But yet is it held entangled in a maze of many a thing,As the low-grown bramble holdeth the brake-shoots of the Spring.I think of the thing that hath been, but no shape is in my thought;I think of the day that passeth, and its story comes to nought.I think of the days that shall be, nor shape I any tale.I will hearken thee, O mother, if hearkening may avail.”

The Carline gazed at her with dark eyes that shone brightly from amidst her brown wrinkled face: then she sat herself down beside her and spake:

“From a far folk have I wandered and I come of an alien blood,But I know all tales of the Wolfings and their evil and their good;And when I heard of thy fairness, thereof I heard it said,That for thee should be never a bridal nor a place in the warrior’s bed.”

The maiden neither reddened nor paled, but looking with calm steady eyes into the Carline’s face she answered:

“Yea true it is, I am wedded to the mighty ones of old,And the fathers of the Wolfings ere the days of field and fold.”

Then a smile came into the eyes of the old woman and she said.

“How glad shall be thy mother of thy worship and thy worth,And the father that begat thee if yet they dwell on earth!”

But the Hall-Sun answered in the same steady manner as before:

“None knoweth who is my mother, nor my very father’s name;But when to the House of the Wolfings a wild-wood waif I came,They gave me a foster-mother an ancient dame and good,And a glorious foster-father the best of all the blood.”

Spake the Carline.

“Yea, I have heard the story, but scarce therein might I trowThat thou with all thy beauty wert born ’neath the oaken bough,And hast crawled a naked baby o’er the rain-drenched autumn-grass;Wilt thou tell the wandering woman what wise it cometh to passThat thou art the Mid-mark’s Hall-Sun, and the sign of the Wolfings’ gain?Thou shalt pleasure me much by the telling, and there of shalt thou be fain.”

Then answered the Hall-Sun.

“Yea; thus much I remember for the first of my memories;That I lay on the grass in the morning and above were the boughs of the trees.But nought naked was I as the wood-whelp, but clad in linen white,And adown the glades of the oakwood the morning sun lay bright.Then a hind came out of the thicket and stood on the sunlit glade,And turned her head toward the oak tree and a step on toward me made.Then stopped, and bounded aback, and away as if in fear,That I saw her no more; then I wondered, though sitting close anearWas a she-wolf great and grisly. But with her was I wont to play,And pull her ears, and belabour her rugged sides and grey,And hold her jaws together, while she whimpered, slobberingFor the love of my love; and nowise I deemed her a fearsome thing.There she sat as though she were watching, and o’er head a blue-winged jayShrieked out from the topmost oak-twigs, and a squirrel ran his wayTwo tree-trunks off. But the she-wolf arose up suddenlyAnd growled with her neck-fell bristling, as if danger drew anigh;And therewith I heard a footstep, for nice was my ear to catchAll the noises of the wild-wood; so there did we sit at watchWhile the sound of feet grew nigher: then I clapped hand on handAnd crowed for joy and gladness, for there out in the sun did standA man, a glorious creature with a gleaming helm on his head,And gold rings on his arms, in raiment gold-broidered crimson-red.Straightway he strode up toward us nor heeded the wolf of the woodBut sang as he went in the oak-glade, as a man whose thought is good,And nought she heeded the warrior, but tame as a sheep was grown,And trotted away through the wild-wood with her crest all laid adown.Then came the man and sat down by the oak-bole close unto meAnd took me up nought fearful and set me on his knee.And his face was kind and lovely, so my cheek to his cheek I laidAnd touched his cold bright war-helm and with his gold rings played,And hearkened his words, though I knew not what tale they had to tell,Yet fain was my heart of their music, and meseemed I loved him well.So we fared for a while and were fain, till he set down my feet on the grass,And kissed me and stood up himself, and away through the wood did he pass.And then came back the she-wolf and with her I played and was fain.Lo the first thing I remember: wilt thou have me babble again?”

Spake the Carline and her face was soft and kind:

“Nay damsel, long would I hearken to thy voice this summer day.But how didst thou leave the wild-wood, what people brought thee away?”

Then said the Hall-Sun:

“I awoke on a time in the even, and voices I heard as I woke;And there was I in the wild-wood by the bole of the ancient oak,And a ring of men was around me, and glad was I indeedAs I looked upon their faces and the fashion of their weed.For I gazed on the red and the scarlet and the beaten silver and gold,And blithe were their noble faces and kindly to behold,And nought had I seen of such-like since that hour of the other dayWhen that warrior came to the oak glade with the little child to play.And forth now he came, with the face that my hands had fondled before,And a battle shield wrought fairly upon his arm he bore,And thereon the wood-wolf’s image in ruddy gold was done.Then I stretched out my little arms towards the glorious shining oneAnd he took me up and set me on his shoulder for a whileAnd turned about to his fellows with a blithe and joyous smile;And they shouted aloud about me and drew forth gleaming swordsAnd clashed them on their bucklers; but nought I knew of the wordsOf their shouting and rejoicing. So thereafter was I laidAnd borne forth on the warrior’s warshield, and our way through the wood we made’Midst the mirth and great contentment of those fair-clad shielded men.“But no tale of the wolf and the wild-wood abides with me since then,And the next thing I remember is a huge and dusky hall,A world for my little body from ancient wall to wall;A world of many doings, and nought for me to do,A world of many noises, and known to me were few.“Time wore, and I spoke with the Wolfings and knew the speech of the kin,And was strange ’neath the roof no longer, as a lonely waif therein;And I wrought as a child with my playmates and every hour looked onUnto the next hour’s joyance till the happy day was done.And going and coming amidst us was a woman tall and thinWith hair like the hoary barley and silver streaks therein.And kind and sad of visage, as now I remember me,And she sat and told us stories when we were aweary with glee,And many of us she fondled, but me the most of all.And once from my sleep she waked me and bore me down the hall,In the hush of the very midnight, and I was feared thereat.But she brought me unto the dais, and there the warrior sat,Who took me up and kissed me, as erst within the wood;And meseems in his arms I slumbered: but I wakened again and stoodAlone with the kindly woman, and gone was the goodly man,And athwart the hush of the Folk-hall the moon shone bright and wan,And the woman dealt with a lamp hung up by a chain aloft,And she trimmed it and fed it with oil, while she chanted sweet and softA song whose words I knew not: then she ran it up again,And up in the darkness above us died the length of its wavering chain.”

“But no tale of the wolf and the wild-wood abides with me since then,And the next thing I remember is a huge and dusky hall,A world for my little body from ancient wall to wall;A world of many doings, and nought for me to do,A world of many noises, and known to me were few.

“Time wore, and I spoke with the Wolfings and knew the speech of the kin,And was strange ’neath the roof no longer, as a lonely waif therein;And I wrought as a child with my playmates and every hour looked onUnto the next hour’s joyance till the happy day was done.And going and coming amidst us was a woman tall and thinWith hair like the hoary barley and silver streaks therein.And kind and sad of visage, as now I remember me,And she sat and told us stories when we were aweary with glee,And many of us she fondled, but me the most of all.And once from my sleep she waked me and bore me down the hall,In the hush of the very midnight, and I was feared thereat.But she brought me unto the dais, and there the warrior sat,Who took me up and kissed me, as erst within the wood;And meseems in his arms I slumbered: but I wakened again and stoodAlone with the kindly woman, and gone was the goodly man,And athwart the hush of the Folk-hall the moon shone bright and wan,And the woman dealt with a lamp hung up by a chain aloft,And she trimmed it and fed it with oil, while she chanted sweet and softA song whose words I knew not: then she ran it up again,And up in the darkness above us died the length of its wavering chain.”

“Yea,” said the carline, “this woman will have been the Hall-Sun that came before thee. What next dost thou remember?”

Said the maiden:

“Next I mind me of the hazels behind the People’s Roof,And the children running thither and the magpie flitting aloof,And my hand in the hand of the Hall-Sun, as after the others we went,And she soberly hearkening my prattle and the words of my intent.And now would I call her ‘Mother,’ and indeed I loved her well.“So I waxed; and now of my memories the tale were long to tell;But as the days passed over, and I fared to field and wood,Alone or with my playmates, still the days were fair and good.But the sad and kindly Hall-Sun for my fosterer now I knew,And the great and glorious warrior that my heart clung sorely toWas but my foster-father; and I knew that I had no kinIn the ancient House of the Wolfings, though love was warm therein.”

“So I waxed; and now of my memories the tale were long to tell;But as the days passed over, and I fared to field and wood,Alone or with my playmates, still the days were fair and good.But the sad and kindly Hall-Sun for my fosterer now I knew,And the great and glorious warrior that my heart clung sorely toWas but my foster-father; and I knew that I had no kinIn the ancient House of the Wolfings, though love was warm therein.”

Then smiled the carline and said: “Yea, he is thy foster-father, and yet a fond one.”

“Sooth is that,” said the Hall-Sun. “But wise art thou by seeming. Hast thou come to tell me of what kindred I am, and who is my father and who is my mother?”

Said the carline: “Art thou not also wise? Is it not so that the Hall-Sun of the Wolfings seeth things that are to come?”

“Yea,” she said, “yet have I seen waking or sleeping no other father save my foster-father; yet my very mother I have seen, as one who should meet her in the flesh one day.”

“And good is that,” said the carline; and as she spoke her face waxed kinder, and she said:

“Tell us more of thy days in the House of the Wolfings and how thou faredst there.”

Said the Hall-Sun:

“I waxed ’neath the Roof of the Wolfings, till now to look uponI was of sixteen winters, and the love of the Folk I won,And in lovely weed they clad me like the image of a God:And lonely now full often the wild-wood ways I trod,And I feared no wild-wood creature, and my presence scared them nought;And I fell to know of wisdom, and within me stirred my thought,So that oft anights would I wander through the mead and far away,And swim the Mirkwood-water, and amidst his eddies playWhen earth was dark in the dawn-tide; and over all the folkI knew of the beasts’ desires, as though in words they spoke.“So I saw of things that should be, were they mighty things or small,And upon a day as it happened came the war-word to the hall,And the House must wend to the warfield, and as they sang, and playedWith the strings of the harp that even, and the mirth of the war-eve made,Came the sight of the field to my eyes, and the words waxed hot in me,And I needs must show the picture of the end of the fight to be.Then I showed them the Red Wolf bristling o’er the broken fleeing foe;And the war-gear of the fleers, and their banner did I show,To wit the Ling-worm’s image with the maiden in his mouth;There I saw my foster-father ’mid the pale blades of the South,Till aloof swept all the handplay and the hurry of the chase,And he lay along by an ash-tree, no helm about his face,No byrny on his body; and an arrow in his thigh,And a broken spear in his shoulder. Then I saw myself draw nighTo sing the song blood-staying. Then saw I how we twainWent ’midst of the host triumphant in the Wolfings’ banner-wain,The black bulls lowing before us athwart the warriors’ song,As up from Mirkwood-water we went our ways alongTo the Great Roof of the Wolfings, whence streamed the women outAnd the sound of their rejoicing blent with the warriors’ shout.“They heard me and saw the picture, and they wotted how wise I was grown,And they loved me, and glad were their hearts at the tale my lips had shown;And my body clad as an image of a God to the field they bore,And I held by the mast of the banner as I looked upon their war,And endured to see unblenching on the wind-swept sunny plainAll the picture of my vision by the men-folk done again.And over my Foster-father I sang the staunching-song,Till the life-blood that was ebbing flowed back to his heart the strong,And we wended back in the war-wain ’midst the gleanings of the fightUnto the ancient dwelling and the Hall-Sun’s glimmering light.“So from that day henceforward folk hung upon my words,For the battle of the autumn, and the harvest of the swords;And e’en more was I loved than aforetime. So wore a year away,And heavy was the burden of the lore that on me lay.“But my fosterer the Hall-Sun took sick at the birth of the year,And changed her life as the year changed, as summer drew anear.But she knew that her life was waning, and lying in her bedShe taught me the lore of the Hall-Sun, and every word to be saidAt the trimming in the midnight and the feeding in the morn,And she laid her hands upon me ere unto the howe she was borneWith the kindred gathered about us; and they wotted her weird and her will,And hailed me for the Hall-Sun when at last she lay there still.And they did on me the garment, the holy cloth of old,And the neck-chain wrought for the goddess, and the rings of the hallowed gold.So here am I abiding, and of things to be I tell,Yet know not what shall befall me nor why with the Wolfings I dwell.”

“So I saw of things that should be, were they mighty things or small,And upon a day as it happened came the war-word to the hall,And the House must wend to the warfield, and as they sang, and playedWith the strings of the harp that even, and the mirth of the war-eve made,Came the sight of the field to my eyes, and the words waxed hot in me,And I needs must show the picture of the end of the fight to be.Then I showed them the Red Wolf bristling o’er the broken fleeing foe;And the war-gear of the fleers, and their banner did I show,To wit the Ling-worm’s image with the maiden in his mouth;There I saw my foster-father ’mid the pale blades of the South,Till aloof swept all the handplay and the hurry of the chase,And he lay along by an ash-tree, no helm about his face,No byrny on his body; and an arrow in his thigh,And a broken spear in his shoulder. Then I saw myself draw nighTo sing the song blood-staying. Then saw I how we twainWent ’midst of the host triumphant in the Wolfings’ banner-wain,The black bulls lowing before us athwart the warriors’ song,As up from Mirkwood-water we went our ways alongTo the Great Roof of the Wolfings, whence streamed the women outAnd the sound of their rejoicing blent with the warriors’ shout.

“They heard me and saw the picture, and they wotted how wise I was grown,And they loved me, and glad were their hearts at the tale my lips had shown;And my body clad as an image of a God to the field they bore,And I held by the mast of the banner as I looked upon their war,And endured to see unblenching on the wind-swept sunny plainAll the picture of my vision by the men-folk done again.And over my Foster-father I sang the staunching-song,Till the life-blood that was ebbing flowed back to his heart the strong,And we wended back in the war-wain ’midst the gleanings of the fightUnto the ancient dwelling and the Hall-Sun’s glimmering light.

“So from that day henceforward folk hung upon my words,For the battle of the autumn, and the harvest of the swords;And e’en more was I loved than aforetime. So wore a year away,And heavy was the burden of the lore that on me lay.

“But my fosterer the Hall-Sun took sick at the birth of the year,And changed her life as the year changed, as summer drew anear.But she knew that her life was waning, and lying in her bedShe taught me the lore of the Hall-Sun, and every word to be saidAt the trimming in the midnight and the feeding in the morn,And she laid her hands upon me ere unto the howe she was borneWith the kindred gathered about us; and they wotted her weird and her will,And hailed me for the Hall-Sun when at last she lay there still.And they did on me the garment, the holy cloth of old,And the neck-chain wrought for the goddess, and the rings of the hallowed gold.So here am I abiding, and of things to be I tell,Yet know not what shall befall me nor why with the Wolfings I dwell.”

Then said the carline:

“What seest thou, O daughter, of the journey of to-day?And why wendest thou not with the war-host on the battle-echoing way?”

Said the Hall-Sun.

“O mother, here dwelleth the Hall-Sun while the kin hath a dwelling-place,Nor ever again shall I look on the onset or the chase,Till the day when the Roof of the Wolfings looketh down on the girdle of foes,And the arrow singeth over the grass of the kindred’s close;Till the pillars shake with the shouting and quivers the roof-tree dear,When the Hall of the Wolfings garners the harvest of the spear.”

Therewith she stood on her feet and turned her face to the Great Roof, and gazed long at it, not heeding the crone by her side; and she muttered words of whose signification the other knew not, though she listened intently, and gazed ever at her as closely as might be.

Then fell the Hall-Sun utterly silent, and the lids closed over her eyes, and her hands were clenched, and her feet pressed hard on the daisies: her bosom heaved with sore sighs, and great tear-drops oozed from under her eyelids and fell on to her raiment and her feet and on to the flowery summer grass; and at the last her mouth opened and she spake, but in a voice that was marvellously changed from that she spake in before:

“Why went ye forth, O Wolfings, from the garth your fathers built,And the House where sorrow dieth, and all unloosed is guilt?Turn back, turn back, and behold it! lest your feet be over slowWhen your shields are heavy-burdened with the arrows of the foe;How ye totter, how ye stumble on the rough and corpse-strewn way!And lo, how the eve is eating the afternoon of day!O why are ye abiding till the sun is sunk in nightAnd the forest trees are ruddy with the battle-kindled light?O rest not yet, ye Wolfings, lest void be your resting-place,And into lands that ye know not the Wolf must turn his face,And ye wander and ye wander till the land in the ocean cease,And your battle bring no safety and your labour no increase.”

Then was she silent for a while, and her tears ceased to flow; but presently her eyes opened once more, and she lifted up her voice and cried aloud—

“I see, I see! O Godfolk behold it from aloof,How the little flames steal flickering along the ridge of the Roof!They are small and red ’gainst the heavens in the summer afternoon;But when the day is dusking, white, high shall they wave to the moon.Lo, the fire plays now on the windows like strips of scarlet clothWind-waved! but look in the night-tide on the onset of its wrath,How it wraps round the ancient timbers and hides the mighty roofBut lighteth little crannies, so lost and far aloof,That no man yet of the kindred hath seen them ere to-night,Since first the builder builded in loving and delight!”

Then again she stayed her speech with weeping and sobbing, but after a while was still again, and then she spoke pointing toward the roof with her right hand.

“I see the fire-raisers and iron-helmed they are,Brown-faced about the banners that their hands have borne afar.And who in the garth of the kindred shall bear adown their shieldSince the onrush of the Wolfings they caught in the open field,As the might of the mountain lion falls dead in the hempen net?O Wolfings, long have ye tarried, but the hour abideth yet.What life for the life of the people shall be given once for all,What sorrow shall stay sorrow in the half-burnt Wolfing Hall?There is nought shall quench the fire save the tears of the Godfolk’s kin,And the heart of the life-delighter, and the life-blood cast therein.”

Then once again she fell silent, and her eyes closed again, and the slow tears gushed out from them, and she sank down sobbing on the grass, and little by little the storm of grief sank and her head fell back, and she was as one quietly asleep. Then the carline hung over her and kissed her and embraced her; and then through her closed eyes and her slumber did the Hall-Sun see a marvel; for she who was kissing her was young in semblance and unwrinkled, and lovely to look on, with plenteous long hair of the hue of ripe barley, and clad in glistening raiment such as has been woven in no loom on earth.

And indeed it was the Wood-Sun in the semblance of a crone, who had come to gather wisdom of the coming time from the foreseeing of the Hall-Sun; since now at last she herself foresaw nothing of it, though she was of the kindred of the Gods and the Fathers of the Goths. So when she had heard the Hall-Sun she deemed that she knew but too well what her words meant, and what for love, what for sorrow, she grew sick at heart as she heard them.

So at last she arose and turned to look at the Great Roof; and strong and straight, and cool and dark grey showed its ridge against the pale sky of the summer afternoon all quivering with the heat of many hours’ sun: dark showed its windows as she gazed on it, and stark and stiff she knew were its pillars within.

Then she said aloud, but to herself: “What then if a merry and mighty life be given for it, and the sorrow of the people be redeemed; yet will not I give the life which is his; nay rather let him give the bliss which is mine. But oh! how may it be that he shall die joyous and I shall live unhappy!”

Then she went slowly down from the Hill of Speech, and whoso saw her deemed her but a gangrel carline. So she went her ways and let the wood cover her.

But in a little while the Hall-Sun awoke alone, and sat up with a sigh, and she remembered nothing concerning her sight of the flickering flame along the hall-roof, and the fire-tongues like strips of scarlet cloth blown by the wind, nor had she any memory of her words concerning the coming day. But the rest of her talk with the carline she remembered, and also the vision of the beautiful woman who had kissed and embraced her; and she knew that it was her very mother. Also she perceived that she had been weeping, therefore she knew that she had uttered words of wisdom. For so it fared with her at whiles, that she knew not her own words of foretelling, but spoke them out as if in a dream.

So now she went down from the Hill of Speech soberly, and turned toward the Woman’s door of the hall, and on her way she met the women and old men and youths coming back from the meadow with little mirth: and there were many of them who looked shyly at her as though they would gladly have asked her somewhat, and yet durst not. But for her, her sadness passed away when she came among them, and she looked kindly on this and that one of them, and entered with them into the Woman’s Chamber, and did what came to her hand to do.

All day long one standing on the Speech-hill of the Wolfings might have seen men in their war-array streaming along the side of Mirkwood-water, on both sides thereof; and the last comers from the Nether-mark came hastening all they might; for they would not be late at the trysting-place. But these were of a kindred called the Laxings, who bore a salmon on their banner; and they were somewhat few in number, for they had but of late years become a House of the Markmen. Their banner-wain was drawn by white horses, fleet and strong, and they were no great band, for they had but few thralls with them, and all, free men and thralls, were a-horseback; so they rode by hastily with their banner-wain, their few munition-wains following as they might.

Now tells the tale of the men-at-arms of the Wolfings and the Beamings, that soon they fell in with the Elking host, which was journeying but leisurely, so that the Wolfings might catch up with them: they were a very great kindred, the most numerous of all Mid-mark, and at this time they had affinity with the Wolfings. But old men of the House remembered how they had heard their grandsires and very old men tell that there had been a time when the Elking House had been established by men from out of the Wolfing kindred, and how they had wandered away from the Mark in the days when it had been first settled, and had abided aloof for many generations of men; and so at last had come back again to the Mark, and had taken up their habitation at a place in Mid-mark where was dwelling but a remnant of a House called the Thyrings, who had once been exceeding mighty, but had by that time almost utterly perished in a great sickness which befel in those days. So then these two Houses, the wanderers come back and the remnant left by the sickness of the Gods, made one House together, and increased and throve after their coming together, and wedded with the Wolfings, and became a very great House.

Gallant and glorious was their array now, as they marched along with their banner of the Elk, which was drawn by the very beasts themselves tamed to draught to that end through many generations; they were fatter and sleeker than their wild-wood brethren, but not so mighty.

So were the men of the three kindreds somewhat mingled together on the way. The Wolfings were the tallest and the biggest made; but of those dark-haired men aforesaid, were there fewest amongst the Beamings, and most among the Elkings, as though they had drawn to them more men of alien blood during their wanderings aforesaid. So they talked together and made each other good cheer, as is the wont of companions in arms on the eve of battle; and the talk ran, as may be deemed, on that journey and what was likely to come of it: and spake an Elking warrior to a Wolfing by whom he rode:

“O Wolfkettle, hath the Hall-Sun had any foresight of the day of battle?”

“Nay,” said the other, “when she lighted the farewell candle, she bade us come back again, and spoke of the day of our return; but that methinks, as thou and I would talk of it, thinking what would be likely to befal. Since we are a great host of valiant men, and these Welshmen{2}most valiant, and as the rumour runneth bigger-bodied men than the Hun-folk, and so well ordered as never folk have been. So then if we overthrow them we shall come back again; and if they overthrow us, the remnant of us shall fall back before them till we come to our habitations; for it is not to be looked for that they will fall in upon our rear and prevent us, since we have the thicket of the wild-wood on our flanks.”

“Sooth is that,” said the Elking; “and as to the mightiness of this folk and their customs, ye may gather somewhat from the songs which our House yet singeth, and which ye have heard wide about in the Mark; for this is the same folk of which a many of them tell, making up that story-lay which is called the South-Welsh Lay; which telleth how we have met this folk in times past when we were in fellowship with a folk of the Welsh of like customs to ourselves: for we of the Elkings were then but a feeble folk. So we marched with this folk of the Kymry and met the men of the cities, and whiles we overthrew and whiles were overthrown, but at last in a great battle were overthrown with so great a slaughter, that the red blood rose over the wheels of the wains, and the city-folk fainted with the work of the slaughter, as men who mow a match in the meadows when the swathes are dry and heavy and the afternoon of midsummer is hot; and there they stood and stared on the field of the slain, and knew not whether they were in Home or Hell, so fierce the fight had been.”

Therewith a man of the Beamings, who was riding on the other side of the Elking, reached out over his horse’s neck and said:

“Yea friend, but is there not some telling of a tale concerning how ye and your fellowship took the great city of the Welshmen of the South, and dwelt there long.”

“Yea,” said the Elking, “Hearken how it is told in the South-Welsh Lay:

“‘Have ye not heardOf the ways of Weird?How the folk fared forthFar away from the North?And as light as one wendethWhereas the wood endeth,When of nought is our need,And none telleth our deed,So Rodgeir unwearied and Reidfari wanThe town where none tarried the shield-shaking man.All lonely the street there, and void was the wayAnd nought hindered our feet but the dead men that layUnder shield in the lanes of the houses heavens-high,All the ring-bearing swains that abode there to die.’

“Tells the Lay, that none abode the Goths and their fellowship, but such as were mighty enough to fall before them, and the rest, both man and woman, fled away before our folk and before the folk of the Kymry, and left their town for us to dwell in; as saith the Lay:

“‘Glistening of goldDid men’s eyen behold;Shook the pale swordO’er the unspoken word,No man drew nigh usWith weapon to try us,For the Welsh-wrought shieldLay low on the field.By man’s hand unbuilded all seemed there to be,The walls ruddy gilded, the pearls of the sea:Yea all things were dead there save pillar and wall,Buttheylived andtheysaid us the song of the hall;The dear hall left to perish by men of the land,For the Goth-folk to cherish with gold gaining hand.’

“See ye how the Lay tells that the hall was bolder than the men, who fled from it, and left all for our fellowship to deal with in the days gone by?”

Said the Wolfing man:

“And as it was once, so shall it be again. Maybe we shall go far on this journey, and see at least one of the garths of the Southlands, even those which they call cities. For I have heard it said that they have more cities than one only, and that so great are their kindreds, that each liveth in a garth full of mighty houses, with a wall of stone and lime around it; and that in every one of these garths lieth wealth untold heaped up. And wherefore should not all this fall to the Markmen and their valiancy?”

Said the Elking:

“As to their many cities and the wealth of them, that is sooth; but as to each city being the habitation of each kindred, it is otherwise: for rather it may be said of them that they have forgotten kindred, and have none, nor do they heed whom they wed, and great is the confusion amongst them. And mighty men among them ordain where they shall dwell, and what shall be their meat, and how long they shall labour after they are weary, and in all wise what manner of life shall be amongst them; and though they be called free men who suffer this, yet may no house or kindred gainsay this rule and order. In sooth they are a people mighty, but unhappy.”

Said Wolfkettle:

“And hast thou learned all this from the ancient story lays, O Hiarandi? For some of them I know, though not all, and therein have I noted nothing of all this. Is there some new minstrel arisen in thine House of a memory excelling all those that have gone before? If that be so, I bid him to the Roof of the Wolfings as soon as may be; for we lack new tales.”

“Nay,” said Hiarandi, “This that I tell thee is not a tale of past days, but a tale of to-day. For there came to us a man from out of the wild-wood, and prayed us peace, and we gave it him; and he told us that he was of a House of the Gael, and that his House had been in a great battle against these Welshmen, whom he calleth the Romans; and that he was taken in the battle, and sold as a thrall in one of their garths; and howbeit, it was not their master-garth, yet there he learned of their customs: and sore was the lesson! Hard was his life amongst them, for their thralls be not so well entreated as their draught-beasts, so many do they take in battle; for they are a mighty folk; and these thralls and those aforesaid unhappy freemen do all tilling and herding and all deeds of craftsmanship: and above these are men whom they call masters and lords who do nought, nay not so much as smithy their own edge-weapons, but linger out their days in their dwellings and out of their dwellings, lying about in the sun or the hall-cinders, like cur-dogs who have fallen away from kind.

“So this man made a shift to flee away from out of that garth, since it was not far from the great river; and being a valiant man, and young and mighty of body, he escaped all perils and came to us through the Mirkwood. But we saw that he was no liar, and had been very evilly handled, for upon his body was the mark of many a stripe, and of the shackles that had been soldered on to his limbs; also it was more than one of these accursed people whom he had slain when he fled. So he became our guest and we loved him, and he dwelt among us and yet dwelleth, for we have taken him into our House. But yesterday he was sick and might not ride with us; but may be he will follow on and catch up with us in a day or two. And if he come not, then will I bring him over to the Wolfings when the battle is done.”

Then laughed the Beaming man, and spake:

“How then if ye come not back, nor Wolfkettle, nor the Welsh Guest, nor I myself? Meseemeth no one of these Southland Cities shall we behold, and no more of the Southlanders than their war-array.”

“These are evil words,” said Wolfkettle, “though such an outcome must be thought on. But why deemest thou this?”

Said the Beaming: “There is no Hall-Sun sitting under our Roof at home to tell true tales concerning the Kindred every day. Yet forsooth from time to time is a word said in our Folk-hall for good or for evil; and who can choose but hearken thereto? And yestereve was a woeful word spoken, and that by a man-child of ten winters.”

Said the Elking: “Now that thou hast told us thus much, thou must tell us more, yea, all the word which was spoken; else belike we shall deem of it as worse than it was.”

Said the Beaming: “Thus it was; this little lad brake out weeping yestereve, when the Hall was full and feasting; and he wailed, and roared out, as children do, and would not be pacified, and when he was asked why he made that to do, he said: ‘Well away! Raven hath promised to make me a clay horse and to bake it in the kiln with the pots next week; and now he goeth to the war, and he shall never come back, and never shall my horse be made.’ Thereat we all laughed as ye may well deem. But the lad made a sour countenance on us and said, ‘why do ye laugh? look yonder, what see ye?’ ‘Nay,’ said one, ‘nought but the Feast-hall wall and the hangings of the High-tide thereon.’ Then said the lad sobbing: ‘Ye see ill: further afield see I: I see a little plain, on a hill top, and fells beyond it far bigger than our speech-hill: and there on the plain lieth Raven as white as parchment; and none hath such hue save the dead.’ Then said Raven, (and he was a young man, and was standing thereby). ‘And well is that, swain, to die in harness! Yet hold up thine heart; here is Gunbert who shall come back and bake thine horse for thee.’ ‘Nay never more,’ quoth the child, ‘For I see his pale head lying at Raven’s feet; but his body with the green gold-broidered kirtle I see not.’ Then was the laughter stilled, and man after man drew near to the child, and questioned him, and asked, ‘dost thou see me?’ ‘dost thou see me?’ And he failed to see but few of those that asked him. Therefore now meseemeth that not many of us shall see the cities of the South, and those few belike shall look on their own shackles therewithal.”

“Nay,” said Hiarandi, “What is all this? heard ye ever of a company of fighting men that fared afield, and found the foe, and came back home leaving none behind them?”

Said the Beaming: “Yet seldom have I heard a child foretell the death of warriors. I tell thee that hadst thou been there, thou wouldst have thought of it as if the world were coming to an end.”

“Well,” said Wolfkettle, “let it be as it may! Yet at least I will not be led away from the field by the foemen. Oft may a man be hindered of victory, but never of death if he willeth it.”

Therewith he handled a knife that hung about his neck, and went on to say: “But indeed, I do much marvel that no word came into the mouth of the Hall-Sun yestereven or this morning, but such as any woman of the kindred might say.”

Therewith fell their talk awhile, and as they rode they came to where the wood drew nigher to the river, and thus the Mid-mark had an end; for there was no House had a dwelling in the Mid-mark higher up the water than the Elkings, save one only, not right great, who mostly fared to war along with the Elkings: and this was the Oselings, whose banner bore the image of the Wood-ousel, the black bird with the yellow neb; and they had just fallen into the company of the greater House.

So now Mid-mark was over and past, and the serried trees of the wood came down like a wall but a little way from the lip of the water; and scattered trees, mostly quicken-trees grew here and there on the very water side. But Mirkwood-water ran deep swift and narrow between high clean-cloven banks, so that none could dream of fording, and not so many of swimming its dark green dangerous waters. And the day wore on towards evening and the glory of the western sky was unseen because of the wall of high trees. And still the host made on, and because of the narrowness of the space between river and wood it was strung out longer and looked a very great company of men. And moreover the men of the eastern-lying part of Mid-mark, were now marching thick and close on the other side of the river but a little way from the Wolfings and their fellows; for nothing but the narrow river sundered them.

So night fell, and the stars shone, and the moon rose, and yet the Wolfings and their fellows stayed not, since they wotted that behind them followed a many of the men of the Mark, both the Mid and the Nether, and they would by no means hinder their march.

So wended the Markmen between wood and stream on either side of Mirkwood-water, till now at last the night grew deep and the moon set, and it was hard on midnight, and they had kindled many torches to light them on either side of the water. So whereas they had come to a place where the trees gave back somewhat from the river, which was well-grassed for their horses and neat, and was called Baitmead, the companies on the western side made stay there till morning. And they drew the wains right up to the thick of the wood, and all men turned aside into the mead from the beaten road, so that those who were following after might hold on their way if so they would. There then they appointed watchers of the night, while the rest of them lay upon the sward by the side of the trees, and slept through the short summer night.

The tale tells not that any man dreamed of the fight to come in such wise that there was much to tell of his dream on the morrow; many dreamed of no fight or faring to war, but of matters little, and often laughable, mere mingled memories of bygone time that had no waking wits to marshal them.

But that man of the Beamings dreamed that he was at home watching a potter, a man of the thralls of the House working at his wheel, and fashioning bowls and ewers: and he had a mind to take of his clay and fashion a horse for the lad that had bemoaned the promise of his toy. And he tried long and failed to fashion anything; for the clay fell to pieces in his hands; till at last it held together and grew suddenly, not into an image of a horse, but of the Great Yule Boar, the similitude of the Holy Beast of Frey. So he laughed in his sleep and was glad, and leaped up and drew his sword with his clay-stained hands that he might wave it over the Earth Boar, and swear a great oath of a doughty deed. And therewith he found himself standing on his feet indeed, just awakened in the cold dawn, and holding by his right hand to an ash-sapling that grew beside him. So he laughed again, and laid him down, and leaned back and slept his sleep out till the sun and the voices of his fellows stirring awakened him.

When it was the morning, all the host of the Markmen was astir on either side of the water, and when they had broken their fast, they got speedily into array, and were presently on the road again; and the host was now strung out longer yet, for the space between water and wood once more diminished till at last it was no wider than ten men might go abreast, and looking ahead it was as if the wild-wood swallowed up both river and road.

But the fighting-men hastened on merrily with their hearts raised high, since they knew that they would soon be falling in with more of their people, and the coming fight was growing a clearer picture to their eyes; so from side to side of the river they shouted out the cries of their Houses, or friend called to friend across the eddies of Mirkwood-water, and there was game and glee enough.

So they fared till the wood gave way before them, and lo, the beginning of another plain, somewhat like the Mid-mark. There also the water widened out before them, and there were eyots in it with stony shores crowned with willow or with alder, and aspens rising from the midst of them.

But as for the plain, it was thus much different from Mid-mark, that the wood which begirt it rose on the south into low hills, and away beyond them were other hills blue in the distance, for the most bare of wood, and not right high, the pastures of the wild-bull and the bison, whereas now dwelt a folk somewhat scattered and feeble; hunters and herdsmen, with little tillage about their abodes, a folk akin to the Markmen and allied to them. They had come into those parts later than the Markmen, as the old tales told; which said moreover that in days gone by a folk dwelt among those hills who were alien from the Goths, and great foes to the Markmen; and how that on a time they came down from their hills with a great host, together with new-comers of their own blood, and made their way through the wild-wood, and fell upon the Upper-mark; and how that there befel a fearful battle that endured for three days; and the first day the Aliens worsted the Markmen, who were but a few, since they were they of the Upper-mark only. So the Aliens burned their houses and slew their old men, and drave off many of their women and children; and the remnant of the men of the Upper-mark with all that they had, which was now but little, took refuge in an island of Mirkwood-water, where they fenced themselves as well as they could for that night; for they expected the succour of their kindred of the Mid-mark and the Nether-mark, unto whom they had sped the war-arrow when they first had tidings of the onset of the Aliens.

So at the sun-rising they sacrificed to the Gods twenty chieftains of the Aliens whom they had taken, and therewithal a maiden of their own kindred, the daughter of their war-duke, that she might lead that mighty company to the House of the Gods; and thereto was she nothing loth, but went right willingly.

There then they awaited the onset. But the men of Mid-mark came up in the morning, when the battle was but just joined, and fell on so fiercely that the aliens gave back, and then they of the Upper-mark stormed out of their eyot, and fell on over the ford, and fought till the water ran red with their blood, and the blood of the foemen. So the Aliens gave back before the onset of the Markmen all over the meads; but when they came to the hillocks and the tofts of the half-burned habitations, and the wood was on their flank, they made a stand again, and once more the battle waxed hot, for they were very many, and had many bowmen: there fell the War-duke of the Markmen, whose daughter had been offered up for victory, and his name was Agni, so that the tofts where he fell have since been called Agni’s Tofts. So that day they fought all over the plain, and a great many died, both of the Aliens and the Markmen, and though these last were victorious, yet when the sun went down there still were the Aliens abiding in the Upper-mark, fenced by their wain-burg, beaten, and much diminished in number, but still a host of men: while of the Markmen many had fallen, and many more were hurt, because the Aliens were good bowmen.

But on the morrow again, as the old tale told, came up the men of the Nether-mark fresh and unwounded; and so the battle began again on the southern limit of the Upper-mark where the Aliens had made their wain-burg. But not long did it endure; for the Markmen fell on so fiercely, that they stormed over the wain-burg, and slew all before them, and there was a very great slaughter of the Aliens; so great, tells the old tale, that never again durst they meet the Markmen in war.

Thus went forth the host of the Markmen, faring along both sides of the water into the Upper-mark; and on the west side, where went the Wolfings, the ground now rose by a long slope into a low hill, and when they came unto the brow thereof, they beheld before them the whole plain of the Upper-mark, and the dwellings of the kindred therein all girdled about by the wild-wood; and beyond, the blue hills of the herdsmen, and beyond them still, a long way aloof, lying like a white cloud on the verge of the heavens, the snowy tops of the great mountains. And as they looked down on to the plain they saw it embroidered, as it were, round about the habitations which lay within ken by crowds of many people, and the banners of the kindreds and the arms of men; and many a place they saw named after the ancient battle and that great slaughter of the Aliens.

On their left hand lay the river, and as it now fairly entered with them into the Upper-mark, it spread out into wide rippling shallows beset with yet more sandy eyots, amongst which was one much greater, rising amidmost into a low hill, grassy and bare of tree or bush; and this was the island whereon the Markmen stood on the first day of the Great Battle, and it was now called the Island of the Gods.

Thereby was the ford, which was firm and good and changed little from year to year, so that all Markmen knew it well and it was called Battleford: thereover now crossed all the eastern companies, footmen and horsemen, freemen and thralls, wains and banners, with shouting and laughter, and the noise of horns and the lowing of neat, till all that plain’s end was flooded with the host of the Markmen.

But when the eastern-abiders had crossed, they made no stay, but went duly ordered about their banners, winding on toward the first of the abodes on the western side of the water; because it was but a little way southwest of this that the Thing-stead of the Upper-mark lay; and the whole Folk was summoned thither when war threatened from the South, just as it was called to the Thing-stead of the Nether-mark, when the threat of war came from the North. But the western companies stayed on the brow of that low hill till all the eastern men were over the river, and on their way to the Thing-stead, and then they moved on.

So came the Wolfings and their fellows up to the dwellings of the northernmost kindred, who were called the Daylings, and bore on their banner the image of the rising sun. Thereabout was the Mark somewhat more hilly and broken than in the Mid-mark, so that the Great Roof of the Daylings, which was a very big house, stood on a hillock whose sides had been cleft down sheer on all sides save one (which was left as a bridge) by the labour of men, and it was a very defensible place.

Thereon were now gathered round about the Roof all the stay-at-homes of the kindred, who greeted with joyous cries the men-at-arms as they passed. Albeit one very old man, who sat in a chair near to the edge of the sheer hill looking on the war array, when he saw the Wolfing banner draw near, stood up to gaze on it, and then shook his head sadly, and sank back again into his chair, and covered his face with his hands: and when the folk saw that, a silence bred of the coldness of fear fell on them, for that elder was deemed a foreseeing man.

But as those three fellows, of whose talk of yesterday the tale has told, drew near and beheld what the old carle did (for they were riding together this day also) the Beaming man laid his hand on Wolfkettle’s rein and said:

“Lo you, neighbour, if thy Vala hath seen nought, yet hath this old man seen somewhat, and that somewhat even as the little lad saw it. Many a mother’s son shall fall before the Welshmen.”

But Wolfkettle shook his rein free, and his face reddened as of one who is angry, yet he kept silence, while the Elking said:

“Let be, Toti! for he that lives shall tell the tale to the foreseers, and shall make them wiser than they are to-day.”

Then laughed Toti, as one who would not be thought to be too heedful of the morrow. But Wolfkettle brake out into speech and rhyme, and said:

“O warriors, the Wolfing kindred shall live or it shall die;And alive it shall be as the oak-tree when the summer storm goes by;But dead it shall be as its bole, that they hew for the corner-postOf some fair and mighty folk-hall, and the roof of a war-fain host.”

So therewith they rode their ways past the abode of the Daylings.

Straight to the wood went all the host, and so into it by a wide way cleft through the thicket, and in some thirty minutes they came thereby into a great wood-lawn cleared amidst of it by the work of men’s hands. There already was much of the host gathered, sitting or standing in a great ring round about a space bare of men, where amidmost rose a great mound raised by men’s hands and wrought into steps to be the sitting-places of the chosen elders and chief men of the kindred; and atop the mound was flat and smooth save for a turf bench or seat that went athwart it whereon ten men might sit.

All the wains save the banner-wains had been left behind at the Dayling abode, nor was any beast there save the holy beasts who drew the banner-wains and twenty white horses, that stood wreathed about with flowers within the ring of warriors, and these were for the burnt offering to be given to the Gods for a happy day of battle. Even the war-horses of the host they must leave in the wood without the wood-lawn, and all men were afoot who were there.

For this was the Thing-stead of the Upper-mark, and the holiest place of the Markmen, and no beast, either neat, sheep, or horse might pasture there, but was straightway slain and burned if he wandered there; nor might any man eat therein save at the holy feasts when offerings were made to the Gods.

So the Wolfings took their place there in the ring of men with the Elkings on their right hand and the Beamings on their left. And in the midst of the Wolfing array stood Thiodolf clad in the dwarf-wrought hauberk: but his head was bare; for he had sworn over the Cup of Renown that he would fight unhelmed throughout all that trouble, and would bear no shield in any battle thereof however fierce the onset might be.

Short, and curling close to his head was his black hair, a little grizzled, so that it looked like rings of hard dark iron: his forehead was high and smooth, his lips full and red, his eyes steady and wide-open, and all his face joyous with the thought of the fame of his deeds, and the coming battle with a foeman whom the Markmen knew not yet.

He was tall and wide-shouldered, but so exceeding well fashioned of all his limbs and body that he looked no huge man. He was a man well beloved of women, and children would mostly run to him gladly and play with him. A most fell warrior was he, whose deeds no man of the Mark could equal, but blithe of speech even when he was sorrowful of mood, a man that knew not bitterness of heart: and for all his exceeding might and valiancy, he was proud and high to no man; so that the very thralls loved him.

He was not abounding in words in the field; nor did he use much the custom of those days in reviling and defying with words the foe that was to be smitten with swords.

There were those who had seen him in the field for the first time who deemed him slack at the work: for he would not always press on with the foremost, but would hold him a little aback, and while the battle was young he forbore to smite, and would do nothing but help a kinsman who was hard pressed, or succour the wounded. So that if men were dealing with no very hard matter, and their hearts were high and overweening, he would come home at whiles with unbloodied blade. But no man blamed him save those who knew him not: for his intent was that the younger men should win themselves fame, and so raise their courage, and become high-hearted and stout.

But when the stour was hard, and the battle was broken, and the hearts of men began to fail them, and doubt fell upon the Markmen, then was he another man to see: wise, but swift and dangerous, rushing on as if shot out by some mighty engine: heedful of all, on either side and in front; running hither and thither as the fight failed and the fire of battle faltered; his sword so swift and deadly that it was as if he wielded the very lightening of the heavens: for with the sword it was ever his wont to fight.

But it must be said that when the foemen turned their backs, and the chase began, then Thiodolf would nowise withhold his might as in the early battle, but ever led the chase, and smote on the right hand and on the left, sparing none, and crying out to the men of the kindred not to weary in their work, but to fulfil all the hours of their day.

For thuswise would he say and this was a word of his:

“Let us rest to-morrow, fellows, since to-day we have fought amain!Let not these men we have smitten come aback on our hands again,And say ‘Ye Wolfing warriors, ye have done your work but ill,Fall to now and do it again, like the craftsman who learneth his skill.’”

Such then was Thiodolf, and ever was he the chosen leader of the Wolfings and often the War-duke of the whole Folk.

By his side stood the other chosen leader, whose name was Heriulf; a man well stricken in years, but very mighty and valiant; wise in war and well renowned; of few words save in battle, and therein a singer of songs, a laugher, a joyous man, a merry companion. He was a much bigger man than Thiodolf; and indeed so huge was his stature, that he seemed to be of the kindred of the Mountain Giants; and his bodily might went with his stature, so that no one man might deal with him body to body. His face was big; his cheek-bones high; his nose like an eagle’s neb, his mouth wide, his chin square and big; his eyes light-grey and fierce under shaggy eyebrows: his hair white and long.

Such were his raiment and weapons, that he wore a coat of fence of dark iron scales sewn on to horse-hide, and a dark iron helm fashioned above his brow into the similitude of the Wolf’s head with gaping jaws; and this he had wrought for himself with his own hands, for he was a good smith. A round buckler he bore and a huge twibill, which no man of the kindred could well wield save himself; and it was done both blade and shaft with knots and runes in gold; and he loved that twibill well, and called it the Wolf’s Sister.

There then stood Heriulf, looking no less than one of the forefathers of the kindred come back again to the battle of the Wolfings.

He was well-beloved for his wondrous might, and he was no hard man, though so fell a warrior, and though of few words, as aforesaid, was a blithe companion to old and young. In numberless battles had he fought, and men deemed it a wonder that Odin had not taken to him a man so much after his own heart; and they said it was neighbourly done of the Father of the Slain to forbear his company so long, and showed how well he loved the Wolfing House.

For a good while yet came other bands of Markmen into the Thing-stead; but at last there was an end of their coming. Then the ring of men opened, and ten warriors of the Daylings made their way through it, and one of them, the oldest, bore in his hand the War-horn of the Daylings; for this kindred had charge of the Thing-stead, and of all appertaining to it. So while his nine fellows stood round about the Speech-Hill, the old warrior clomb up to the topmost of it, and blew a blast on the horn. Thereon they who were sitting rose up, and they who were talking each to each held their peace, and the whole ring drew nigher to the hill, so that there was a clear space behind them ’twixt them and the wood, and a space before them between them and the hill, wherein were those nine warriors, and the horses for the burnt-offering, and the altar of the Gods; and now were all well within ear-shot of a man speaking amidst the silence in a clear voice.

But there were gathered of the Markmen to that place some four thousand men, all chosen warriors and doughty men; and of the thralls and aliens dwelling with them they were leading two thousand. But not all of the freemen of the Upper-mark could be at the Thing; for needs must there be some guard to the passes of the wood toward the south and the hills of the herdsmen, whereas it was no wise impassable to a wisely led host: so five hundred men, what of freemen, what of thralls, abode there to guard the wild-wood; and these looked to have some helping from the hill-men.

Now came an ancient warrior into the space between the men and the wild-wood holding in his hand a kindled torch; and first he faced due south by the sun, then, turning, he slowly paced the whole circle going from east to west, and so on till he had reached the place he started from: then he dashed the torch to the ground and quenched the fire, and so went his ways to his own company again.

Then the old Dayling warrior on the mound-top drew his sword, and waved it flashing in the sun toward the four quarters of the heavens; and thereafter blew again a blast on the War-horn. Then fell utter silence on the whole assembly, and the wood was still around them, save here and there the stamping of a war-horse or the sound of his tugging at the woodland grass; for there was little resort of birds to the depths of the thicket, and the summer morning was windless.

So the Dayling warrior lifted up his voice and said:

“O kindreds of the Markmen, hearken the words I say;For no chancehap assembly is gathered here to-day.The fire hath gone around us in the hands of our very kin,And twice the horn hath sounded, and the Thing is hallowed in.Will ye hear or forbear to hearken the tale there is to tell?There are many mouths to tell it, and a many know it well.And the tale is this, that the foemen against our kindreds fareWho eat the meadows desert, and burn the desert bare.”

Then sat he down on the turf seat; but there arose a murmur in the assembly as of men eager to hearken; and without more ado came a man out of a company of the Upper-mark, and clomb up to the top of the Speech-Hill, and spoke in a loud voice:

“I am Bork, a man of the Geirings of the Upper-mark: two days ago I and five others were in the wild-wood a-hunting, and we wended through the thicket, and came into the land of the hill-folk; and after we had gone a while we came to a long dale with a brook running through it, and yew-trees scattered about it and a hazel copse at one end; and by the copse was a band of men who had women and children with them, and a few neat, and fewer horses; but sheep were feeding up and down the dale; and they had made them booths of turf and boughs, and were making ready their cooking fires, for it was evening. So when they saw us, they ran to their arms, but we cried out to them in the tongue of the Goths and bade them peace. Then they came up the bent to us and spake to us in the Gothic tongue, albeit a little diversely from us; and when we had told them what and whence we were, they were glad of us, and bade us to them, and we went, and they entreated us kindly, and made us such cheer as they might, and gave us mutton to eat, and we gave them venison of the wild-wood which we had taken, and we abode with them there that night.

“But they told us that they were a house of the folk of the herdsmen, and that there was war in the land, and that the people thereof were fleeing before the cruelty of a host of warriors, men of a mighty folk, such as the earth hath not heard of, who dwell in great cities far to the south; and how that this host had crossed the mountains, and the Great Water that runneth from them, and had fallen upon their kindred, and overcome their fighting-men, and burned their dwellings, slain their elders, and driven their neat and their sheep, yea, and their women and children in no better wise than their neat and sheep.

“And they said that they had fled away thus far from their old habitations, which were a long way to the south, and were now at point to build them dwellings there in that Dale of the Hazels, and to trust to it that these Welshmen, whom they called Romans, would not follow so far, and that if they did, they might betake them to the wild-wood, and let the thicket cover them, they being so nigh to it.

“Thus they told us; wherefore we sent back one of our fellowship, Birsti of the Geirings, to tell the tale; and one of the herdsmen folk went with him, but we ourselves went onward to hear more of these Romans; for the folk when we asked them, said that they had been in battle against them, but had fled away for fear of their rumour only. Therefore we went on, and a young man of this kindred, who named themselves the Hrutings of the Fell-folk, went along with us. But the others were sore afeard, for all they had weapons.

“So as we went up the land we found they had told us the very sooth, and we met divers Houses, and bands, and broken men, who were fleeing from this trouble, and many of them poor and in misery, having lost their flocks and herds as well as their roofs; and this last be but little loss to them, as their dwellings are but poor, and for the most part they have no tillage. Now of these men, we met not a few who had been in battle with the Roman host, and much they told us of their might not to be dealt with, and their mishandling of those whom they took, both men and women; and at the last we heard true tidings how they had raised them a garth, and made a stronghold in the midst of the land, as men who meant abiding there, so that neither might the winter drive them aback, and that they might be succoured by their people on the other side of the Great River; to which end they have made other garths, though not so great, on the road to that water, and all these well and wisely warded by tried men. For as to the Folks on the other side of the Water, all these lie under their hand already, what by fraud what by force, and their warriors go with them to the battle and help them; of whom we met bands now and again, and fought with them, and took men of them, who told us all this and much more, over long to tell of here.”

He paused and turned about to look on the mighty assembly, and his ears drank in the long murmur that followed his speaking, and when it had died out he spake again, but in rhyme:

“Lo thus much of my tidings! But this too it behoveth to tell,That these masterful men of the cities of the Markmen know full well:And they wot of the well-grassed meadows, and the acres of the Mark,And our life amidst of the wild-wood like a candle in the dark;And they know of our young men’s valour and our women’s loveliness,And our tree would they spoil with destruction if its fruit they may never possess.For their lust is without a limit, and nought may satiateTheir ravening maw; and their hunger if ye check it turneth to hate,And the blood-fever burns in their bosoms, and torment and anguish and woeO’er the wide field ploughed by the sword-blade for the coming years they sow;And ruth is a thing forgotten and all hopes they trample down;And whatso thing is steadfast, whatso of good renown,Whatso is fair and lovely, whatso is ancient soothIn the bloody marl shall they mingle as they laugh for lack of ruth.Lo the curse of the world cometh hither; for the men that we took in the landSaid thus, that their host is gathering with many an ordered bandTo fall on the wild-wood passes and flood the lovely Mark,As the river over the meadows upriseth in the dark.Look to it, O ye kindred! availeth now no wordBut the voice of the clashing of iron, and the sword-blade on the sword.”

Therewith he made an end, and deeper and longer was the murmur of the host of freemen, amidst which Bork gat him down from the Speech-Hill, his weapons clattering about him, and mingled with the men of his kindred.

Then came forth a man of the kin of the Shieldings of the Upper-mark, and clomb the mound; and he spake in rhyme from beginning to end; for he was a minstrel of renown:

“Lo I am a man of the Shieldings and Geirmund is my name;A half-moon back from the wild-wood out into the hills I came,And I went alone in my war-gear; for we have affinityWith the Hundings of the Fell-folk, and with them I fain would be;For I loved a maid of their kindred. Now their dwelling was not farFrom the outermost bounds of the Fell-folk, and bold in the battle they are,And have met a many people, and held their own abode.Gay then was the heart within me, as over the hills I rodeAnd thought of the mirth of to-morrow and the sweet-mouthed Hunding maidAnd their old men wise and merry and their young men unafraid,And the hall-glee of the Hundings and the healths o’er the guesting cup.But as I rode the valley, I saw a smoke go upO’er the crest of the last of the grass-hills ’twixt me and the Hunding roof,And that smoke was black and heavy: so a while I bided aloof,And drew my girths the tighter, and looked to the arms I boreAnd handled my spear for the casting; for my heart misgave me sore,For nought was that pillar of smoke like the guest-fain cooking-fire.I lingered in thought for a minute, then turned me to ride up higher,And as a man most wary up over the bent I rode,And nigh hid peered o’er the hill-crest adown on the Hunding abode;And forsooth ’twas the fire wavering all o’er the roof of old,And all in the garth and about it lay the bodies of the bold;And bound to a rope amidmost were the women fair and young,And youths and little children, like the fish on a withy strungAs they lie on the grass for the angler before the beginning of night.Then the rush of the wrath within me for a while nigh blinded my sight;Yet about the cowering war-thralls, short dark-faced men I saw,Men clad in iron armour, this way and that way draw,As warriors after the battle are ever wont to do.Then I knew them for the foemen and their deeds to be I knew,And I gathered the reins together to ride down the hill amain,To die with a good stroke stricken and slay ere I was slain.When lo, on the bent before me rose the head of a brown-faced man,Well helmed and iron-shielded, who some Welsh speech beganAnd a short sword brandished against me; then my sight cleared and I sawFive others armed in likewise up hill and toward me draw,And I shook the spear and sped it and clattering on his shieldHe fell and rolled o’er smitten toward the garth and the Fell-folk’s field.“But my heart changed with his falling and the speeding of my stroke,And I turned my horse; for within me the love of life awoke,And I spurred, nor heeded the hill-side, but o’er rough and smooth I rodeTill I heard no chase behind me; then I drew rein and abode.And down in a dell was I gotten with a thorn-brake in its throat,And heard but the plover’s whistle and the blackbird’s broken note’Mid the thorns; when lo! from a thorn-twig away the blackbird swept,And out from the brake and towards me a naked man there crept,And straight I rode up towards him, and knew his face for oneI had seen in the hall of the Hundings ere its happy days were done.I asked him his tale, but he bade me forthright to bear him away;So I took him up behind me, and we rode till late in the day,Toward the cover of the wild-wood, and as swiftly as we might.But when yet aloof was the thicket and it now was moonless night,We stayed perforce for a little, and he told me all the tale:How the aliens came against them, and they fought without availTill the Roof o’er their heads was burning and they burst forth on the foe,And were hewn down there together; nor yet was the slaughter slow.But some they saved for thralldom, yea, e’en of the fighting men,Or to quell them with pains; so they stripped them; and this man espying just thenSome chance, I mind not whatwise, from the garth fled out and away.“Now many a thing noteworthy of these aliens did he say,But this I bid you hearken, lest I wear the time for nought,That still upon the Markmen and the Mark they set their thought;For they questioned this man and others through a go-between in wordsOf us, and our lands and our chattels, and the number of our swords;Of the way and the wild-wood passes and the winter and his ways.Now look to see them shortly; for worn are fifteen daysSince in the garth of the Hundings I saw them dight for war,And a hardy folk and ready and a swift-foot host they are.”

“But my heart changed with his falling and the speeding of my stroke,And I turned my horse; for within me the love of life awoke,And I spurred, nor heeded the hill-side, but o’er rough and smooth I rodeTill I heard no chase behind me; then I drew rein and abode.And down in a dell was I gotten with a thorn-brake in its throat,And heard but the plover’s whistle and the blackbird’s broken note’Mid the thorns; when lo! from a thorn-twig away the blackbird swept,And out from the brake and towards me a naked man there crept,And straight I rode up towards him, and knew his face for oneI had seen in the hall of the Hundings ere its happy days were done.I asked him his tale, but he bade me forthright to bear him away;So I took him up behind me, and we rode till late in the day,Toward the cover of the wild-wood, and as swiftly as we might.But when yet aloof was the thicket and it now was moonless night,We stayed perforce for a little, and he told me all the tale:How the aliens came against them, and they fought without availTill the Roof o’er their heads was burning and they burst forth on the foe,And were hewn down there together; nor yet was the slaughter slow.But some they saved for thralldom, yea, e’en of the fighting men,Or to quell them with pains; so they stripped them; and this man espying just thenSome chance, I mind not whatwise, from the garth fled out and away.

“Now many a thing noteworthy of these aliens did he say,But this I bid you hearken, lest I wear the time for nought,That still upon the Markmen and the Mark they set their thought;For they questioned this man and others through a go-between in wordsOf us, and our lands and our chattels, and the number of our swords;Of the way and the wild-wood passes and the winter and his ways.Now look to see them shortly; for worn are fifteen daysSince in the garth of the Hundings I saw them dight for war,And a hardy folk and ready and a swift-foot host they are.”

Therewith Geirmund went down clattering from the Hill and stood with his company. But a man came forth from the other side of the ring, and clomb the Hill: he was a red-haired man, rather big, clad in a skin coat, and bearing a bow in his hand and a quiver of arrows at his back, and a little axe hung by his side. He said:

“I dwell in the House of the Hrossings of the Mid-mark, and I am now made a man of the kindred: howbeit I was not born into it; for I am the son of a fair and mighty woman of a folk of the Kymry, who was taken in war while she went big with me; I am called Fox the Red.

“These Romans have I seen, and have not died: so hearken! for my tale shall be short for what there is in it.

“I am, as many know, a hunter of Mirkwood, and I know all its ways and the passes through the thicket somewhat better than most.

“A moon ago I fared afoot from Mid-mark through Upper-mark into the thicket of the south, and through it into the heath country; and I went over a neck and came in the early dawn into a little dale when somewhat of mist still hung over it. At the dale’s end I saw a man lying asleep on the grass under a quicken tree, and his shield and sword hanging over his head to a bough thereof, and his horse feeding hoppled higher up the dale.

“I crept up softly to him with a shaft nocked on the string, but when I drew near I saw him to be of the sons of the Goths. So I doubted nothing, but laid down my bow, and stood upright, and went to him and roused him, and he leapt up, and was wroth.

“I said to him, ‘Wilt thou be wroth with a brother of the kindred meeting him in unpeopled parts?’

“But he reached out for his weapons; but ere he could handle them I ran in on him so that he gat not his sword, and had scant time to smite at me with a knife which he drew from his waist.

“I gave way before him for he was a very big man, and he rushed past me, and I dealt him a blow on the side of the head with my little axe which is called the War-babe, and gave him a great wound: and he fell on the grass, and as it happened that was his bane.

“I was sorry that I had slain him, since he was a man of the Goths: albeit otherwise he had slain me, for he was very wroth and dazed with slumber.

“He died not for a while; and he bade me fetch him water; and there was a well hard by on the other side of the tree; so I fetched it him in a great shell that I carry, and he drank. I would have sung the blood-staunching song over him, for I know it well. But he said, ‘It availeth nought: I have enough: what man art thou?’

“I said, ‘I am a fosterling of the Hrossings, and my mother was taken in war: my name is Fox.’

“Said he; ‘O Fox, I have my due at thy hands, for I am a Markman of the Elkings, but a guest of the Burgundians beyond the Great River; and the Romans are their masters and they do their bidding: even so did I who was but their guest: and I a Markman to fight against the Markmen, and all for fear and for gold! And thou an alien-born hast slain their traitor and their dastard! This is my due. Give me to drink again.’

“So did I; and he said; ‘Wilt thou do an errand for me to thine own house?’ ‘Yea,’ said I.

“Said he, ‘I am a messenger to the garth of the Romans, that I may tell the road to the Mark, and lead them through the thicket; and other guides are coming after me: but not yet for three days or four. So till they come there will be no man in the Roman garth to know thee that thou art not even I myself. If thou art doughty, strip me when I am dead and do my raiment on thee, and take this ring from my neck, for that is my token, and when they ask thee for a word say, “No limit”; for that is the token-word. Go south-east over the dales keeping Broadshield-fell square with thy right hand, and let thy wisdom, O Fox, lead thee to the Garth of the Romans, and so back to thy kindred with all tidings thou hast gathered—for indeed they come—a many of them. Give me to drink.’

“So he drank again, and said, ‘The bearer of this token is called Hrosstyr of the River Goths. He hath that name among dastards. Thou shalt lay a turf upon my head. Let my death pay for my life.’

“Therewith he fell back and died. So I did as he bade me and took his gear, worth six kine, and did it on me; I laid turf upon him in that dale, and hid my bow and my gear in a blackthorn brake hard by, and then took his horse and rode away.

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