On the day appointed, Thorstein and his men, dressed in their best, to make all the show they could, and carrying food and drink, rode out a good way from the house to meet the bride, who came riding with her father and kinsfolk and bridesmaids by the old path to Lowick. At the border of Thorstein’s land they met, and alighting from their horses ate and drank to the good luck of the place they were come to. Then they made their procession, two and two on horseback, by the woodland path that led them through the Blawith. The bride and bridegroom rode together at the head of the procession, and right glad was Thorstein to think that at last he would have house and wife of his own.

“Well, sweetheart,” said he, “and now it’s home.”

“Is it always like this?” said she. “One would say it does nought but rain in your fells.”

“No such thing,” said he; “whiles it snows. But never mind; there’s a warm hearth hard by. Thy riding cape will soon dry on the rannalbalk.”

“Like a man! to put my cape in the soot indeed. And what for a road call you this? Who will ever come to visit one, away here?”

“Oh, there’s Halldora; she’s a good neighbour, and no pleasanter visitor could we have.”

“I’m thinking there’s been a deal of Halldora lately.”

“Well,” said he, “come, Asdis, it’ll be all right when we get there. See, yonder’s the little house.”

If the day was dull and cheerless, bright lights were shining through the windows that evening, and a plentiful feast was made in Blawith hall. In the chief high-seat was set Master Asmund, and beside him the neighbours who had been bidden to the wedding. Over against him the bridegroom sat in his high-seat, with his men on either hand: and on the bride-bench, set across the hall at the upper end, was the bride, all dressed in white linen, with a high white cap and a white veil hanging down her back, with a silver brooch on her brow, a gold necklace at her throat, and housewife’s keys clattering at her girdle. Beside her sat the bridesmaids and her friends, with Unna and Halldora on the right hand and the left.

After they were set and the feast was well begun, Thorstein rose and went across the hall to his bride, and gave her for a bench-gift a cloak lined with rare furs and richly embroidered. Then they drank to him and his bride, wishing them luck and long life, and with all the lights lit saw them to their lock-bed chamber; at the door of which her father Asmund gave her with a fitting word into her husband’s keeping.

The next morning, as the custom was, the marriage settlements were finished. Thorstein made over to Asmund the gifts that had been agreed upon, and Asmund put them in the keeping of the bride, to be her own property. And folk said that Thorstein had done well by Asmund’s daughter, and that no lass of those parts could wish for a better husband. Then they went on to keep the wedding for three days with feasting and games and every pleasure that could be got for them. But still it rained, and they took to playing indoors, mating men, and wrestling in the hall, and skin-pulling across the fire spot, and draught-playing, and story-telling, and song-singing, and all that a body might do to pass the time.

But before the three days of the feast were well over, came a loud rapping at the door, and there stood a man holding the arrow to bid them to the mid-summer Althing, which was to be in some three weeks. They made him welcome to the wedding, for they were fain of somewhat new.

“Nay,” said he, “I reckon you will think twice of your welcome when you hear me out.”

“Why so?” cried they all.

“For the reason that our bonny bridegroom here will have to choose between a far journey and a fair bride, unless he stands out of the play, and I doubt he will never do that. At last, neighbours, there is a chance of some ado, and that speedily, if you take the counsel of them that sent me. You must know that when King Athelstan died, no hand was raised against him that followed, Eadmund etheling that was, king that is: and all things seemed to be even as they had been. But why or how I know not, Eadmund could never abide Northmen, and in especial he hates king Eric, him they call Bloodaxe, whom Athelstan had set over York. So when the word came to York that Eric was like to be turned out of his place, he never waited for Eadmund, but went forth and sailed away out of the Humber: and men say that he has gone north to Orkney where Arnkell and Erlend Einarsons are his friends.”

“Like to like,” says Thorstein; “and a good riddance too.”

“That’s as it turns out. For it’s ill mending bad with worse. The York folk seemingly think any change lightsome, if its nobut out of bed into beck, as the old body said. What have they done but send to Dublin bidding Olaf Guthferthson—”

“Plague on it,” says Thorstein: “if it had been old Thorfin, or young Hakon, but a Dane!”

“Hear me, I say. Olaf the Dane, being of the old stock of Ivarsons, is bidden to take the power: and that speedily, before the young king can step in. And as Eadmund is but a lad of eighteen winters and no more, it is thought the Danes will have a chance of setting up once again in England. Now the Cumberland Welsh mislike it, and our friends thereaway mislike it: but they look to see the whole job done in the twinkling of an eye. And for you, if you have anything to say about it, now is your time.”

So they asked what was to be done: and he said that it was likely Olaf would come in with no very great following, by the old road from Ellenburg through Cumberland; and Domhnaill was to be there to meet him, but whether as friend or foe was yet to be seen. And if the Northmen wished to have a hand in the matter, they should be at their Thing-stead at once, to take counsel with themselves and their neighbours, and to be ready for Olaf by the time he came into the defensible road among the fells.

“What, Thorstein,” said Asdis, “you are never going on this fool’s errand, and me nought but half wed?”

“Why, lass, it is but a three days’ run, and I’ll be back again in a hop, skip and jump.”

Something seemed to come before him as he spoke: as when in a dream one says, “All this I have dreamt before.” Then he remembered; and turned away.