(52)
     “O shake me yon rime from the awning;
     Your singer's a-cold in his berth;
     For the hills are all hooded, dear Skardi,
     In the hoary white veil of the firth.
     There's one they call Wielder of Thunder
     I would were as chill and as cold;
     But he leaves not the side of his lady
     As the lindworm forsakes not its gold.”

“Always talking of her now!” said Thorgils; “and yet thou wouldst not have her when thou couldst.”

“That was more the fault of witchcraft,” answered Cormac, “that any want of faith in me.”

Not long after they were sailing hard among crags, and shortened sail in great danger.

“It is a pity Thorvald Tinker is not with us here!” said Cormac.

Said Thorgils with a smile, “Most likely he is better off than we, to-day!”

But before long they came to land in Norway.





CHAPTER NINETEEN. How Cormac Fought In Ireland, And Went Home To Iceland; And How He Met Steingerd Again.

While they were abroad there had been a change of kings; Hakon was dead, and Harald Greyfell reigned in his stead. They offered friendship to the king, and he took their suit kindly; so they went with him to Ireland, and fought battles there.

Once upon a time when they had gone ashore with the king, a great host came against him, and as the armies met, Cormac made this song:—

                    (53)
     “I dread not a death from the foemen,
     Though we dash at them, buckler to buckler,
     While our prince in the power of his warriors
     Is proud of me foremost in battle.
     But the glimpse of a glory comes o'er me
     Like the gleam of the moon on the skerry,
     And I faint and I fail for my longing,
     For the fair one at home in the North.”

“Ye never get into danger,” said Thorgils, “but ye think of Steingerd!”

“Nay,” answered Cormac, “but it's not often I forget her.”

Well: this was a great battle, and king Harald won a glorious victory. While his men drove the rout before him, the brothers were shoulder to shoulder; and they fell upon nine men at once and fought them. And while they were at it, Cormac sang:—

                    (54)
     “Fight on, arrow-driver, undaunted,
     And down with the foemen of Harald!
     What are nine?  they are nought!  Thou and I, lad,
     Are enough;—they are ours!—we have won them!
     But—at home,—in the arms of an outlaw
     That all the gods loathe for a monster,
     So white and so winsome she nestles
     —Yet once she was loving to me!”

“It always comes down to that!” said Thorgils. When the fight was over, the brothers had got the victory, and the nine men had fallen before them; for which they won great praise from the king, and many honours beside.

But while they were ever with the king in his warfarings, Thorgils was aware that Cormac was used to sleep but little; and he asked why this might be. This was the song Cormac made in answer:—

                    (55)
     “Surf on a rock-bound shore of the sea-king's blue domain—
     Look how it lashes the crags, hark how it thunders again!
     But all the din of the isles that the Delver heaves in foam
     In the draught of the undertow glides out to the sea-gods'
                                   home.
     Now, which of us two should test?  Is it thou, with thy
                                   heart at ease,
     Or I that am surf on the shore in the tumult of angry seas?
     —Drawn, if I sleep, to her that shines with the ocean-
                                   gleam,
     —Dashed, when I wake, to woe, for the want of my
                                   glittering dream.”

“And now let me tell you this, brother,” he went on. “Hereby I give out that I am going back to Iceland.”

Said Thorgils, “There is many a snare set for thy feet, brother, to drag thee down, I know not whither.”

But when the king heard of his longing to begone, he sent for Cormac, and said that he did unwisely, and would hinder him from his journey. But all this availed nothing, and aboard ship he went.

At the outset they met with foul winds, so that they shipped great seas, and the yard broke. Then Cormac sang:—

                    (56)
     “I take it not ill, like the Tinker
     If a trickster had foundered his muck-sled;
     For he loves not rough travelling, the losel,
     And loath would he be of this uproar.
     I flinch not,—nay, hear it, ye fearless
     Who flee not when arrows are raining,—
     Though the steeds of the ocean be storm-bound
     And stayed in the harbour of Solund.”

So they pushed out to sea, and hard weather they tholed. Once on a time when the waves broke over the deck and drenched them all, Cormac made this song:—

                    (57)
     “O the Tinker's a lout and a lubber,
     And the life of a sailor he dares not,
     When the snow-crested surges caress us
     And sweep us away with their kisses,
     He bides in a berth that is warmer,
     Embraced in the arms of his lady;
     And lightly she lulls him to slumber,
     —But long she has reft me of rest!”

They had a very rough voyage, but landed at last in Midfiord, and anchored off shore. Looking landward they beheld where a lady was riding by; and Cormac knew at once that it was Steingerd. He bade his men launch a boat, and rowed ashore. He went quickly from the boat, and got a horse, and rode to meet her. When they met, he leapt from horseback and helped her to alight, making a seat for her beside him on the ground.

Their horses wandered away: the day passed on, and it began to grow dark. At last Steingerd said, “It is time to look for our horses.”

Little search would be needed, said Cormac; but when he looked about, they were nowhere in sight. As it happened, they were hidden in a gill not far from where the two were sitting.

So, as night was hard at hand, they set out to walk, and came to a little farm, where they were taken in and treated well, even as they needed. That night they slept each on either side of the carven wainscot that parted bed from bed: and Cormac made this song:—

                    (58)
     “We rest, O my beauty, my brightest,
     But a barrier lies ever between us.
     So fierce are the fates and so mighty
     —I feel it—that rule to their rede.
     Ah, nearer I would be, and nigher,
     Till nought should be left to dispart us,
     —The wielder of Skofnung the wonder,
     And the wearer of sheen from the deep.”

“It was better thus,” said Steingerd: but he sang:—

                    (59)
     “We have slept 'neath one roof-tree—slept softly,
     O sweet one, O queen of the mead-horn,
     O glory of sea-dazzle gleaming,
     These grim hours,—these five nights, I count them.
     And here in the kettle-prow cabined
     While the crow's day drags on in the darkness,
     How loathly me seems to be lying,
     How lonely,—so near and so far!”

“That,” said she, “is all over and done with; name it no more.” But he sang:—

                    (60)
     “The hot stone shall float,—ay, the hearth-stone
     Like a husk of the corn on the water,
     —Ah, woe for the wight that she loves not!—
     And the world,—ah, she loathes me!—shall perish,
     And the fells that are famed for their hugeness
     Shall fail and be drowned in the ocean,
     Or ever so gracious a goddess
     Shall grow into beauty like Steingerd.”

Then Steingerd cried out that she would not have him make songs upon her: but he went on:—

                    (61)
     “I have known it and noted it clearly,
     O neckleted fair one, in visions,
     —Is it doom for my hopes,—is it daring
     To dream?—O so oft have I seen it!—
     Even this,—that the boughs of thy beauty,
     O braceleted fair one, shall twine them
     Round the hill where the hawk loves to settle,
     The hand of thy lover, at last.”

“That,” said she, “never shall be, if I can help it. Thou didst let me go, once for all; and there is no more hope for thee.”

So then they slept the night long; and in the morning, when Cormac was making ready to be gone, he found Steingerd, and took the ring off his finger to give her.

“Fiend take thee and thy gold together!” she cried. And this is what he answered:—

                    (62)
     “To a dame in her broideries dainty
     This drift of the furnace I tendered;
     O day of ill luck, for a lover
     So lured, and so heartlessly cheated!
     Too blithe in the pride of her beauty—
     The bliss that I crave she denies me;
     So rich that no boon can I render,
     —And my ring she would hurl to the fiends!”

So Cormac rode forth, being somewhat angry with Steingerd, but still more so with the Tinker. He rode home to Mel, and stayed there all the winter, taking lodgings for his chapmen near the ship.





CHAPTER TWENTY. Of A Spiteful Song That Cormac Never Made; And How Angry Steingerd Was.

Now Thorvald the Tinker lived in the north-country at Svinadal (Swindale), but his brother Thorvard at Fliot. In the winter Cormac took his way northward to see Steingerd; and coming to Svinadal he dismounted and went into the chamber. She was sitting on the dais, and he took his seat beside her; Thorvald sat on the bench, and Narfi by him.

Then said Narfi to Thorvald, “How canst thou sit down, with Cormac here? It is no time, this, for sitting still!”

But Thorvald answered, “I am content; there is no harm done it seems to me, though they do talk together.”

“That is ill,” said Narfi.

Not long afterwards Thorvald met his brother Thorvard and told him about Cormac's coming to his house.

“Is it right, think you,” said Thorvard, “to sit still while such things happen?”

He answered that there was no harm done as yet, but that Cormac's coming pleased him not.

“I'll mend that,” cried Thorvard, “if you dare not. The shame of it touches us all.”

So this was the next thing,—that Thorvard came to Svinadal, and the Skiding brothers and Narfi paid a gangrel beggar-man to sing a song in the hearing of Steingerd, and to say that Cormac had made it,—which was a lie. They said that Cormac had taught this song to one called Eylaug, a kinswoman of his; and these were the words:—

                    (63)
     “I wish an old witch that I know of,
     So wealthy and proud of her havings,
     Were turned to a steed in the stable
     —Called Steingerd—and I were the rider!
     I'd bit her, and bridle, and saddle,
     I'd back her and drive her and tame her;
     So many she owns for her masters,
     But mine she will never become!”

Then Steingerd grew exceedingly angry, so that she would not so much as hear Cormac named. When he heard that, he went to see her. Long time he tried in vain to get speech with her; but at last she gave this answer,—that she misliked his holding her up to shame,—“And now it is all over the country-side!”

Cormac said it was not true; but she answered, “Thou mightest flatly deny it, if I had not heard it.”

“Who sang it in thy hearing?” asked he.

She told him who sang it,—“And thou needest not hope for speech with me if this prove true.”

He rode away to look for the rascal, and when he found him the truth was forced out at last. Cormac was very angry, and set on Narfi and slew him. That same onset was meant for Thorvald, but he hid himself in the shadow and skulked, until men came between then and parted them. Said Cormac:—

                    (64)
     “There, hide in the house like a coward,
     And hope not hereafter to scare me
     With the scorn of thy brethren the Skidings,—
     I'll set them a weft for their weaving!
     I'll rhyme on the swaggering rascals
     Till rocks go afloat on the water;
     And lucky for you if ye loosen
     The line of your fate that I ravel!”

This went all over the country-side and the feud grew fiercer between them. The brothers Thorvald and Thorvard used big words, and Cormac was wroth when he heard them.





CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE. How Thorvard Would Not Fight, But Tried To Get The Law Of Cormac.

After this Thorvard sent word from Fliot that he was fain to fight Cormac, and he fixed time and place, saying that he would now take revenge for that song of shame and all other slights.

To this Cormac agreed; and when the day came he went to the spot that was named, but Thorvard was not there, nor any of his men. Cormac met a woman from the farm hard by, who greeted him, and they asked each other for news.

“What is your errand?” said she; “and why are you waiting here?”

Then he answered with this song:—

                    (65)
     “Too slow for the struggle I find him,
     That spender of fire from the ocean,
     Who flung me a challenge to fight him
     From Fleet in the land of the North.
     That half-witted hero should get him
     A heart made of clay for his carcase,
     Though the mate of the may with the necklace
     Is more of a fool than his fere!”

“Now,” said Cormac, “I bid Thorvard anew to the holmgang, if he can be called in his right mind. Let him be every man's nithing if he come not!” and then he made this song:—

                    (66)
     “The nithing shall silence me never,
     Though now for their shame they attack me,
     But the wit of the Skald is my weapon,
     And the wine of the gods will uphold me.
     And this they shall feel in its fulness;
     Here my fame has its birth and beginning;
     And the stout spears of battle shall see it,
     If I 'scape from their hands with my life.”

Then the brothers set on foot a law-suit against him for libel. Cormac's kinsmen backed him up to answer it, and he would let no terms be made, saying that they deserved the shame put upon them, and no honour; he was not unready to meet them, unless they played him false. Thorvard had not come to the holmgang when he had been challenged, and therefore the shame had fallen of itself upon him and his, and they must put up with it.

So time passed until the Huna-water Thing. Thorvard and Cormac both went to the meeting, and once they came together.

“Much enmity we owe thee,” said Thorvard, “and in many ways. Now therefore I challenge thee to the holmgang, here at the Thing.”

Said Cormac, “Wilt thou be fitter than before? Thou hast drawn back time after time.”

“Nevertheless,” said Thorvard, “I will risk it. We can abide thy spite no longer.”

“Well,” said Cormac, “I'll not stand in the way;” and went home to Mel.





CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO. What The Witch Did For Them In Their Fights.

At Spakonufell (Spae-wife's-fell) lived Thordis the spae-wife, of whom we have told before, with her husband Thorolf. They were both at the Thing, and many a man thought her good-will was of much avail. So Thorvard sought her out, to ask her help against Cormac, and gave her a fee; and she made him ready for the holmgang according to her craft.

Now Cormac told his mother what was forward, and she asked if he thought good would come of it.

“Why not?” said he.

“That will not be enough for thee,” said Dalla. “Thorvard will never make bold to fight without witchcraft to help him. I think it wise for thee to see Thordis the spae-wife, for there is going to be foul play in this affair.”

“It is little to my mind,” said he; and yet went to see Thordis, and asked her help.

“Too late ye have come,” said she. “No weapon will bite on him now. And yet I would not refuse thee. Bide here to-night, and seek thy good luck. Anyway, I can manage so that iron bite thee no more than him.”

So Cormac stayed there for the night; and, awaking, found that some one was groping round the coverlet at his head. “Who is there?” he asked, but whoever it was made off, and out at the house-door, and Cormac after. And then he saw it was Thordis, and she was going to the place where the fight was to be, carrying a goose under her arm.

He asked what it all meant, and she set down the goose, saying, “Why couldn't ye keep quiet?”

So he lay down again, but held himself awake, for he wanted to know what she would be doing. Three times she came, and every time he tried to find out what she was after. The third time, just as he came out, she had killed two geese and let the blood run into a bowl, and she had taken up the third goose to kill it.

“What means this business, foster-mother?” said he.

“True it will prove, Cormac, that you are a hard one to help,” said she. “I was going to break the spell Thorveig laid on thee and Steingerd. Ye could have loved one another been happy if I had killed the third goose and no one seen it.”

“I believe nought of such things,” cried he; and this song he made about it:—

                    (67)
     “I gave her an ore at the ayre,
     That the arts of my foe should not prosper;
     And twice she has taken the knife,
     And twice she has offered the offering;
     But the blood is the blood of a goose—
     What boots it if two should be slaughtered?—
     Never sacrifice geese for a Skald
     Who sings for the glory of Odin!”

So they went to the holmgang: but Thorvald gave the spae-wife a still greater fee, and offered the sacrifice of geese; and Cormac said:—

                    (68)
     “Trust never another man's mistress!
     For I know, on this woman who weareth
     The fire of the field of the sea-king
     The fiends have been riding to revel.
     The witch with her hoarse cry is working
     For woe when we go to the holmgang,
     And if bale be the end of the battle
     The blame, be assured, will be hers.”

“Well,” she said, “I can manage so that none shall know thee.” Then Cormac began to upbraid her, saying she did nought but ill, and wanting to drag her out to the door to look at her eyes in the sunshine. His brother Thorgils made him leave that:—“What good will it do thee?” said he.

Now Steingerd gave out that she had a mind to see the fight; and so she did. When Cormac saw her he made this song:—

                    (69)
     “I have fared to the field of the battle,
     O fair one that wearest the wimple!
     And twice for thy sake have I striven;
     What stays me as now from thy favour?
     This twice have I gotten thee glory,
     O goddess of ocean!  and surely
     To my dainty delight, to my darling
     I am dearer by far than her mate.”

So then they set to. Cormac's sword bit not at all, and for a long while they smote strokes one upon the other, but neither sword bit. At last Cormac smote upon Thorvard's side so great a blow that his ribs gave way and were broken; he could fight no more, and thereupon they parted. Cormac looked and saw where a bull was standing, which he slew for a sacrifice; and being heated, he doffed his helmet from his head, saying this song:—

                    (70)
     “I have fared to the field of the battle,
     O fair one that wearest the bracelet!
     Even three times for thee have I striven,
     And this thou canst never deny me.
     But the reed of the fight would not redden,
     Though it rang on the shield-bearer's harness;
     For the spells of a spae-wife had blunted
     My sword that was eager for blood.”

He wiped the sweat from him on the corner of Steingerd's mantle; and said:—

                    (71)
     “So oft, being wounded and weary,
     I must wipe my sad brow on thy mantle.
     What pangs for thy sake are my portion,
     O pine-tree with red gold enwreathed!
     Yet beside thee he snugs on the settle
     As thou seamest thy broidery,—that rhymester!
     And the shame of it whelms me in sorrow,
     O Steingerd!—that rascal unslain!”

And then Cormac prayed Steingerd that she would go with him: but Nay, she said; she would have her own way about men. So they parted, and both were ill pleased.

Thorvard was taken home, and she bound his wounds. Cormac was now always meeting with Steingerd. Thorvard healed but slowly; and when he could get on his feet he went to see Thordis, and asked her what was best to help his healing.

“A hill there is,” answered she, “not far away from here, where elves have their haunt. Now get you the bull that Cormac killed, and redden the outer side of the hill with its blood, and make a feast for the elves with its flesh. Then thou wilt be healed.”

So they sent word to Cormac that they would buy the bull. He answered that he would sell it, but then he must have the ring that was Steingerd's. So they brought the ring, took the bull, and did with it as Thordis bade them do. On which Cormac made a song:—

                    (72)
     “When the workers of wounds are returning,
     And with them the sacrifice reddened,
     Then a lady in raiment of linen,
     Who loved me, time was,—she will ask:—
     My ring,—have ye robbed me?—where is it?
     —I have wrought them no little displeasure:
     For the swain that is swarthy has won it,
     The son of old Ogmund, the skald.”

It fell out as he guessed. Steingerd was very angry because they had sold her ring.





CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE. How Cormac Beat Thorvard Again.

After that, Thorvard was soon healed, and when he thought he was strong again, he rode to Mel and challenged Cormac to the holmgang.

“It takes thee long to tire of it,” said Cormac: “but I'll not say thee nay.”

So they went to the fight, and Thordis met Thorvard now as before, but Cormac sought no help from her. She blunted Cormac's sword, so that it would not bite, but yet he struck so great a stroke on Thorvard's shoulder that the collarbone was broken and his hand was good for nothing. Being so maimed he could fight no longer, and had to pay another ring for his ransom.

Then Thorolf of Spakonufell set upon Cormac and struck at him. He warded off the blow and sang this song:—

                    (73)
     “This reddener of shields, feebly wrathful,
     His rusty old sword waved against me,
     Who am singer and sacred to Odin!
     Go, snuffle, most wretched of men, thou!
     A thrust of thy sword is as thewless
     As thou, silly stirrer of battle.
     What danger to me from thy daring,
     Thou doited old witch-woman's carle?”

Then he killed a bull in sacrifice according to use and wont, saying, “Ill we brook your overbearing and the witchcraft of Thordis:” and he made this song:—

                    (74)
     “The witch in the wave of the offering
     Has wasted the flame of the buckler,
     Lest its bite on his back should be deadly
     At the bringing together of weapons.
     My sword was not sharp for the onset
     When I sought the helm-wearer in battle;
     But the cur got enough to cry craven,
     With a clout that will mind him of me!”

After that each party went home, and neither was well pleased with these doings.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR. How They All Went Out To Norway.

Now all the winter long Cormac and Thorgils laid up their ship in Hrutafiord; but in spring the chapmen were off to sea, and so the brothers made up their minds for the voyage. When they were ready to start, Cormac went to see Steingerd: and before they two parted he kissed her twice, and his kisses were not at all hasty. The Tinker would not have it; and so friends on both sides came in, and it was settled that Cormac should pay for this that he had done.

“How much?” asked he.

“The two rings that I parted with,” said Thorvard. Then Cormac made a song:—

                    (75)
     “Here is gold of the other's well gleaming
     In guerdon for this one and that one,—
     Here is treasure of Fafnir the fire-drake
     In fee for the kiss of my lady.
     Never wearer of ring, never wielder
     Of weapon has made such atonement;
     Never dearer were deeply-drawn kisses,—
     For the dream of my bliss is betrayed.”

And then, when he started to go aboard his ship he made another song:—

                    (76)
     “One song from my heart would I send her
     Ere we shall, ere I leave her and lose her,
     That dainty one, decked in her jewels
     Who dwells in the valley of Swindale.
     And each word that I utter shall enter
     The ears of that lady of bounty,
     Saying—Bright one, my beauty, I love thee,
     Ah, better by far than my life!”

So Cormac went abroad and his brother Thorgils went with him; and when they came to the king's court they were made welcome.

Now it is told that Steingerd spoke to Thorvald the Tinker that they also should abroad together. He answered that it was mere folly, but nevertheless he could not deny her. So they set off on their voyage: and as they made their way across the sea, they were attacked by vikings who fell on them to rob them and to carry away Steingerd. But it so happened that Cormac heard of it; and he made after them and gave good help, so that they saved everything that belonged to them, and came safely at last to the court of the king of Norway.

One day Cormac was walking in the street, and spied Steingerd sitting within doors. So he went into the house and sat down beside her, and they had a talk together which ended in his kissing her four kisses. But Thorvald was on the watch. He drew his sword, but the women-folk rushed in to part them, and word was sent to King Harald. He said they were very troublesome people to keep in order.—“But let me settle this matter between you,” said he; and they agreed.

Then spake the king:—“One kiss shall be atoned for by this, that Cormac helped you to get safely to land. The next kiss is Cormac's, because he saved Steingerd. For the other two he shall pay two ounces of gold.”

Upon which Cormac sang the same song that he had made before:—

                    (77)
     “Here is gold of the otter's well gleaming
     In guerdon for this one and that one,—
     Here is treasure of Fafnir the fire-drake
     In fee for the kiss of my lady.
     Never wearer of ring, never wielder
     Of weapon has made such atonement;
     Never dearer were deeply-drawn kisses—
     And the dream of my bliss is betrayed.”

Another day he was walking in the street and met Steingerd again. He turned to her and prayed her to walk with him. She would not; whereupon he laid hand on her, to lead her along. She cried out for help; and as it happened, the king was standing not far off, and went up to them. He thought this behaviour most unseemly, and took her away, speaking sharply to Cormac. King Harald made himself very angry over this affair; but Cormac was one of his courtiers, and it was not long before he got into favour again, and then things went fair and softly for the rest of the winter.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE. How They Cruised With The King's Fleet, And Quarrelled, And Made It Up.

In the following spring King Harald set forth to the land of Permia with a great host. Cormac was one of the captains in that warfaring, and in another ship was Thorvald: the other captains of ships are not named in our story.

Now as they were all sailing in close order through a narrow sound, Cormac swung his steering-oar and hit Thorvald a clout on the ear, so that he fell from his place at the helm in a swoon; and Cormac's ship hove to, when she lost her rudder. Steingerd had been sitting beside Thorvald; she laid hold of the tiller, and ran Cormac down. When he saw what she was doing, he sang:—

                    (78)
     “There is one that is nearer and nigher
     To the noblest of dames than her lover:
     With the haft of the helm is he smitten
     On the hat-block—and fairly amidships!
     The false heir of Eystein—he falters—
     He falls in the poop of his galley!
     Nay!  steer not upon me, O Steingerd,
     Though stoutly ye carry the day!”

So Cormac's ship capsized under him; but his crew were saved without loss of time, for there were plenty of people round about. Thorvald soon came round again, and they all went on their way. The king offered to settle the matter between them; and when they both agreed, he gave judgment that Thorvald's hurt was atoned for by Cormac's upset.

In the evening they went ashore; and the king and his men sat down to supper. Cormac was sitting outside the door of a tent, drinking out of the same cup with Steingerd. While they were busy at it, a young fellow for mere sport and mockery stole the brooch out of Cormac's fur cloak, which he had doffed and laid aside; and when he came to take his cloak again, the brooch was gone. He sprang up and rushed after the young fellow, with the spear that he called Vigr (the spear) and shot at him, but missed. This was the song he made about it:—

                    (79)
     “The youngster has pilfered my pin,
     As I pledged the gay dame in the beaker;
     And now must we brawl for a brooch
     Like boys when they wrangle and tussle.
     Right well have I shafted my spear,
     Though I shot nothing more than the gravel:
     But sure, if I missed at my man,
     The moss has been prettily slaughtered!”

After this they went on their way to the land of Permia, and after that they went home again to Norway.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX. How Cormac Saved Steingerd Once More From Pirates; And How They Parted For Good And All.

Thorvald the Tinker fitted out his ship for a cruise to Denmark, and Steingerd sailed with him. A little afterwards the brothers set out on the same voyage, and late one evening they made the Brenneyjar.

There they saw Thorvald's ship riding, and found him aboard with part of his crew; but they had been robbed of all their goods, and Steingerd had been carried off by Vikings. Now the leader of those Vikings was Thorstein, the son of that Asmund Ashenside, the old enemy of Ogmund, the father of Cormac and Thorgils.

So Thorvald and Cormac met, and Cormac asked how came it that his voyage had been so unlucky.

“Things have not turned out for the best, indeed,” said he.

“What is the matter?” asked Cormac. “Is Steingerd missing?”

“She is gone,” said Thorvald, “and all our goods.”

“Why don't you go after her?” asked Cormac.

“We are not strong enough,” said Thorvald.

“Do you mean to say you can't?” said Cormac.

“We have not the means to fight Thorstein,” said Thorvald. “But if thou hast, go in and fight for thy own hand.”

“I will,” said Cormac.

So at nightfall the brothers went in a boat and rowed to the Viking fleet, and boarded Thorstein's ship. Steingerd was in the cabin on the poop; she had been allotted to one of the Vikings; but most of the crew were ashore round the cooking-fires. Cormac got the story out of the men who were cooking, and they told all the brothers wanted to know. They clambered on board by the ladder; Thorgils dragged the bridegroom out to the gunwale, and Cormac cut him down then and there. Then he dived into the sea with Steingerd and swam ashore; but when he was nearing the land a swarm of eels twisted round his hands and feet, so that he was dragged under. On which he made this song:—

                    (80)
     “They came at me yonder in crowds,
     O kemp of the shield-serpents' wrangle!
     When I fared on my way through the flood,
     That flock of the wights of the water.
     And ne'er to the gate of the gods
     Had I got me, if there had I perished;
     Yet once and again have I won,
     Little woman, thy safety in peril!”

So he swam ashore and brought Steingerd back to her husband.

Thorvald bade Steingerd to go, at last, along with Cormac, for he had fairly won her, and manfully. That was what he, too, desired, said Cormac; but “Nay,” said Steingerd, “she would not change knives.”

“Well,” said Cormac, “it was plain that this was not to be. Evil beings,” he said, “ill luck, had parted them long ago.” And he made this song:—

                    (81)
     “Nay, count not the comfort had brought me,
     Fair queen of the ring, thy embrace!
     Go, mate with the man of thy choosing,
     Scant mirth will he get of thy grace!
     Be dearer henceforth to thy dastard,
     False dame of the coif, than to me;—
     I have spoken the word; I have sung it;—
     I have said my last farewell to thee.”

And so he bade her begone with her husband.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN. The Swan-Songs of Cormac.

After these things the brothers turned back to Norway, and Thorvald the Tinker made his way to Iceland. But the brothers went warfaring round about Ireland, Wales, England and Scotland, and they were reckoned to be the most famous of men. It was they who first built the castle of Scarborough; they made raids into Scotland, and achieved many great feats, and led a mighty host; and in all that host none was like Cormac in strength and courage.

Once upon a time, after a battle, Cormac was driving the flying foe before him while the rest of his host had gone back aboard ship. Out of the woods there rushed against him one as monstrous big as an idol—a Scot; and a fierce struggle began. Cormac felt for his sword, but it had slipped out of the sheath; he was over-matched, for the giant was possessed; but yet he reached out, caught his sword, and struck the giant his death-blow. Then the giant cast his hands about Cormac, and gripped his sides so hard that the ribs cracked, and he fell over, and the dead giant on top of him, so that he could not stir. Far and wide his folk were looking for him, but at last they found him and carried him aboard ship. Then he made this song:—

                    (82)
     “When my manhood was matched in embraces
     With the might of yon horror, the strangler,
     Far other I found it than folding
     That fair one ye know in my arms!
     On the high-seat of heroes with Odin
     From the horn of the gods I were drinking
     O'er soon—let me speak it to warriors—
     If Skrymir had failed of his aid.”

Then his wounds were looked to; they found that his ribs were broken on both sides. He said it was no use trying to heal him, and lay there in his wounds for a time, while his men grieved that he should have been so unwary of his life.

He answered them in song:—

                    (83)
     “Of yore never once did I ween it,
     When I wielded the cleaver of targets,
     That sickness was fated to foil me—
     A fighter so hardy as I.
     But I shrink not, for others must share it,
     Stout shafts of the spear though they deem them,
     —O hard at my heart is the death-pang,—
     Thus hopeless the bravest may die.”

And this song also:—

                    (84)
     “He came not with me in the morning,
     Thy mate, O thou fairest of women,
     When we reddened for booty the broadsword,
     So brave to the hand-grip, in Ireland:
     When the sword from its scabbard was loosened
     And sang round my cheeks in the battle
     For the feast of the Fury, and blood-drops
     Fell hot on the neb of the raven.”

And then he began to fail.

This was his last song:—