t her. And there were memories of
Elvanna in her castle by the lake, and Sirann of the Hundred Rings, and
beauteous Vardry, and hawk-proud Lona, and-- No, he could not do justice
to any of them in the little time that remained. What a pity it was!

No, wait, that unforgettable night in Nienne, the beauty which had
whispered in his ear and drawn him close, the hair which had fallen like
a silken tent about his cheeks ... ah, that had been the summit of his
life, he would go down into darkness with her name on his lips ... But
hell! What _had_ her name been, now?

Cappen Varra, minstrel of Croy, clung to the bench and sighed.

The great hollow voice of surf lifted about him, waves sheeted across
the gunwale and the boat danced in madness. Cappen groaned, huddling
into the circle of his own arms and shaking with cold. Swiftly, now, the
end of all sunlight and laughter, the dark and lonely road which all men
must tread. _O Ilwarra of Syr, Aedra in Tholis, could I but kiss you
once more--_

Stones grated under the keel. It was a shock like a sword going through
him. Cappen looked unbelievingly up. The boat had drifted to land--he
was alive!

It was like the sun in his breast. Weariness fell from him, and he
leaped overside, not feeling the chill of the shallows. With a grunt, he
heaved the boat up on the narrow strand and knotted the painter to a
fang-like jut of reef.

Then he looked about him. The island was small, utterly bare, a savage
loom of rock rising out of the sea that growled at its feet and streamed
off its shoulders. He had come into a little cliff-walled bay, somewhat
sheltered from the wind. He was here!

For a moment he stood, running through all he had learned about the
trolls which infested these northlands. Hideous and soulless dwellers
underground, they knew not old age; a sword could hew them asunder, but
before it reached their deep-seated life, their unhuman strength had
plucked a man apart. Then they ate him--

Small wonder the northmen feared them. Cappen threw back his head and
laughed. He had once done a service for a mighty wizard in the south,
and his reward hung about his neck, a small silver amulet. The wizard
had told him that no supernatural being could harm anyone who carried a
piece of silver.

The northmen said that a troll was powerless against a man who was not
afraid; but, of course, only to see one was to feel the heart turn to
ice. They did not know the value of silver, it