nd I think the maid looks gently on me, and that things
may yet go well between us. I have many things to give such as women
love. At the least, if thou givest me thy good word, I will risk it,
Asmund: for the bold thrower sometimes wins the stake. Only I say this,
that, if Swanhild is unwilling, let there be an end of my wooing, for I
do not wish to take a bride who turns from my grey hairs."

Asmund said that it should be so, and they made an end of talking just
as the light faded.

Now Asmund went out seeking Swanhild, and presently he met her near the
stead. He could not see her face, and that was well, for it was not good
to look on, but her mien was wondrous wild.

"Where hast thou been, Swanhild?" he asked.

"Mourning Eric Brighteyes," she made answer.

"It is meeter for Gudruda to mourn over Eric than for thee, for her loss
is heavy," Asmund said sternly. "What hast thou to do with Eric?"

"Little, or much; or all--read it as thou wilt, foster-father. Still,
all wept for are not lost, nor all who are lost wept for."

"Little do I know of thy dark redes," said Asmund. "Where is Gudruda
now?"

"High is she or low, sleeping or perchance awakened: naught reck I. She
also mourned for Eric, and we went nigh to mingling tears--near together
were brown curls and golden," and she laughed aloud.

"Thou art surely fey, thou evil girl!" said Asmund.

"Ay, foster-father, fey: yet is this but the first of my feydom. Here
starts the road that I must travel, and my feet shall be red ere the
journey's done."

"Leave thy dark talk," said Asmund, "for to me it is as the wind's
song, and listen: a good thing has befallen thee--ay, good beyond thy
deserving."

"Is it so? Well, I stand greatly in need of good. What is thy tidings,
foster-father?"

"This: Atli the Earl asks thee in marriage, and he is a mighty man, well
honoured in his own land, and set higher, moreover, than I had looked
for thee."

"Ay," answered Swanhild, "set like the snow above the fells, set in the
years that long are dead. Nay, foster-father, this white-bearded
dotard is no mate for me. What! shall I mix my fire with his frost, my
breathing youth with the creeping palsy of his age? Never! If Swanhild
weds she weds not so, for it is better to go maiden to the grave than
thus to shrink and wither at the touch of eld. Now is Atli's wooing
sped, and there's an end."

Asmund heard and grew wroth, for the matter seemed strange to him; nor
are maid