第68章 CHAPTER XXVI(1)

THIODOLF TALKETH WITH THE WOOD-SUN

Now were Thiodolf and the Hall-Sun left alone together standing by the Speech-Hill; and the moon was risen high in the heavens above the tree-tops of the wild-wood. Thiodolf scarce stirred, and he still held his head bent down as one lost in thought.

Then said the Hall-Sun, speaking softly amidst the hush of the camp:

"I have said that the minutes of this night are dear, and they are passing swiftly; and it may be that thou wilt have much to say and to do before the host is astir with the dawning. So come thou with me a little way, that thou mayst hear of new tidings, and think what were best to do amidst them."And without more ado she took him by the hand and led him forth, and he went as he was led, not saying a word. They passed out of the camp into the wood, none hindering, and went a long way where under the beech-leaves there was but a glimmer of the moonlight, and presently Thiodolf's feet went as it were of themselves; for they had hit a path that he knew well and over-well.

So came they to that little wood-lawn where first in this tale Thiodolf met the Wood-Sun; and the stone seat there was not empty now any more than it was then; for thereon sat the Wood-Sun, clad once more in her glittering raiment. Her head was sunken down, her face hidden by her hands; neither did she look up when she heard their feet on the grass, for she knew who they were.

Thiodolf lingered not; for a moment it was to him as if all that past time had never been, and its battles and hurry and hopes and fears but mere shows, and the unspoken words of a dream. He went straight up to her and sat down by her side and put his arm about her shoulders, and strove to take her hand to caress it; but she moved but little, and it was as if she heeded him not. And the Hall-Sun stood before them and looked at them for a little while; and then she fell to speech; but at the first sound of her voice, it seemed that the Wood-Sun trembled, but still she hid her face. Said the Hall-Sun:

"Two griefs I see before me in mighty hearts grown great;And to change both these into gladness out-goes the power of fate.

Yet I, a lonely maiden, have might to vanquish one Till it melt as the mist of the morning before the summer sun.

O Wood-Sun, thou hast borne me, and I were fain indeed To give thee back thy gladness; but thou com'st of the Godhead's seed, And herein my might avails not; because I can but show Unto these wedded sorrows the truth that the heart should know Ere the will hath wielded the hand; and for thee, I can tell thee nought That thou hast not known this long while; thy will and thine hand have wrought, And the man that thou lovest shall live in despite of Gods and of men, If yet thy will endureth. But what shall it profit thee then That after the fashion of Godhead thou hast gotten thee a thrall To be thine and never another's, whatso in the world may befall?

Lo! yesterday this was a man, and to-morrow it might have been The very joy of the people, though never again it were seen;Yet a part of all they hoped for through all the lapse of years, To make their laughter happy and dull the sting of tears;To quicken all remembrance of deeds that never die, And death that maketh eager to live as the days go by.

Yea, many a deed had he done as he lay in the dark of the mound;As the seed-wheat plotteth of spring, laid under the face of the ground That the foot of the husbandman treadeth, that the wind of the winter wears, That the turbid cold flood hideth from the constant hope of the years.

This man that should leave in his death his life unto many an one Wilt thou make him a God of the fearful who live lone under the sun?

And then shalt thou have what thou wouldedst when amidst of the hazelled field Thou kissed'st the mouth of the helper, and the hand of the people's shield, Shalt thou have the thing that thou wouldedst when thou broughtest me to birth, And I, the soul of the Wolfings, began to look on earth?

Wilt thou play the God, O mother, and make a man anew, A joyless thing and a fearful? Then I betwixt you two, 'Twixt your longing and your sorrow will cast the sundering word, And tell out all the story of that rampart of the sword!

I shall bid my mighty father make choice of death in life, Or life in death victorious and the crowned end of strife."Ere she had ended, the Wood-Sun let her hands fall down, and showed her face, which for all its unpaled beauty looked wearied and anxious; and she took Thiodolf's hand in hers, while she looked with eyes of love upon the Hall-Sun, and Thiodolf laid his cheek to her cheek, and though he smiled not, yet he seemed as one who is happy.

At last the Wood-Sun spoke and said:

"Thou sayest sooth, O daughter: I am no God of might, Yet I am of their race, and I think with their thoughts and see with their sight, And the threat of the doom did I know of, and yet spared not to lie:

For I thought that the fate foreboded might touch and pass us by, As the sword that heweth the war-helm and cleaveth a cantle away, And the cunning smith shall mend it and it goeth again to the fray;If my hand might have held for a moment, yea, even against his will, The life of my beloved! But Weird is the master still:

And this man's love of my body and his love of the ancient kin Were matters o'er mighty to deal with and the game withal to win.

Woe's me for the waning of all things, and my hope that needs must fade As the fruitless sun of summer on the waste where nought is made!

And now farewell, O daughter, thou mayst not see the kiss Of the hapless and the death-doomed when I have told of this;Yet once again shalt thou see him, though I no more again, Fair with the joy that hopeth and dieth not in vain."Then came the Hall-Sun close to her, and knelt down by her, and laid her head upon her knees and wept for love of her mother, who kissed her oft and caressed her; and Thiodolf's hand strayed, as it were, on to his daughter's head, and he looked kindly on her, though scarce now as if he knew her. Then she arose when she had kissed her mother once more, and went her ways from that wood-lawn into the woods again, and so to the Folk-mote of her people.