PROVES THAT THE BEST OF FRIENDS MAY QUARREL ABOUT NOTHING, AND THAT WAR HAS TWO ASPECTS

“Now, Erling,” said Glumm, with a face so cheerful, that had the expression been habitual, he never would have been styled the Gruff, “I will go home with thee and wait until thou art busked, after which we will go together to my house and have a bite and a horn of mead before setting out on this expedition.  I thank the Stoutheart for suggesting it, for the business likes me well.”

“Thou wert ever prone to court danger, Glumm,” said Erling with a laugh, as they hurried towards Haldorstede, “and methinks thou art going to be blessed with a full share of it just now, for this Harald Haarfager is not a man to be trifled with.  Although thou and I could hold our own against some odds, we shall find the odds too much for us in the King’s camp, should he set his face against us.  However, the cause is a good one, and to say truth, I am not sorry that they had the goodness to pitch on thee and me to carry out the plan.”

Thus conversing they arrived at Ulfstede, where Herfrida met them at the door, and was soon informed of their mission.  She immediately went to an inner closet, where the best garments and arms were kept, and brought forth Erling’s finest suit of armour, in order that he might appear with suitable dignity at court.

She made him change his ordinary shoes for a pair made of tanned leather, on which he bound a pair of silver spurs, which had been taken from a cavalier of southern lands in one of Haldor’s viking cruises.  She brought, and assisted him to put on, a new suit of mail, every ring of which had been brightly polished by the busy hands of Ingeborg, who was unusually fond of meddling with everything that pertained to the art of war; also a new sword-belt of yellow leather, ornamented with gold studs.  On his head she placed a gilt helmet with his favourite crest, a pair of hawk’s wings expanded upwards, and a curtain of leather covered with gilt-steel rings to defend the neck.  Over his shoulders she flung a short scarlet cloak, which was fastened at the throat by a large silver brooch, similar to the circular brooches which are still to be found in the possession of the rich bonders of Norway.  Then she surveyed her stalwart son from head to foot, and said that he would stand comparison with any king in the land, small or great.

At this Erling laughed, and asked for his sword.

“Which one, my son?”

“The short one, mother.  I had indeed thought of taking my good old axe with me, but that would not look well in a man bent on a mission of peace.  Would it, Glumm?  And if I should have to fight, why, my short sword is not a light one, and by putting to a little more force I can make it bite deep enough.  So now, Glumm, I am ready for the road.  Farewell, mother.”

The young men went out and hastened down the valley to Glummstede, near
Horlingend.

Now it chanced that Hilda and her foster-sister Ada had resolved, about that time of the day, to walk up the dale together, and as there was only one road on that side of the river, of necessity they were met by their lovers; and it so fell out that the meeting took place in a picturesque part of the dale, where the road passed between two high precipitous cliffs.

The instant that Ada’s eyes fell on Glumm her active brain conceived the idea of treating him to a disappointment, so she said hurriedly to her friend: 

“Hilda, wilt thou manage to lead Glumm aside and keep talking to him for a short time, while I speak with Erling?  I want to ask him something about that sword-belt which I am making for Glumm, and which I intend to send him as the gift of an enemy.”

“I will do as ye desire,” replied Hilda, with a feeling of disappointment; “but with what truth canst thou send it, Ada, as an enemy’s gift?”

“Simple Hilda!” said the other, with a laugh, “am I not an enemy to his peace of mind?  But hush! they will overhear us.”

It chanced that Hilda was on the same side of the road with Erling, and Ada on that with Glumm, and both youths observed this fact with secret satisfaction as they approached and wished the maids “good day”; but just as they were about to shake hands Ada crossed in front of her companion, and taking Erling’s outstretched hand said: 

“Erling, I am glad to meet thee, because I have a knotty point which I wish thine aid to disentangle.  I will turn and walk with thee a short way, because I know thy business is pressing.  It is always so with men, is it not?”

“I know not,” answered Erling, smiling at the girl’s arch look, despite his surprise and chagrin at the unexpected turn affairs had taken, for he had noted the readiness with which Hilda had turned towards Glumm, and almost, as he imagined, led him aside purposely!  “But it seems to me, Ada, that, however pressing a man’s business may be, woman has the power to delay it.”

“Nay, then, if thine is indeed so pressing just now,” said Ada, with a toss of the head (which Glumm, who walked behind with Hilda, took particular note of), “I will not presume to ­”

“Now, Ada,” said Erling, with a light laugh, “thou knowest that it is merely waste of time to affect indignation.  I know thee too well to be deceived.  Come, what is it that ye would consult me about? not the forging of a battle-axe or spear-head, I warrant me.”

“Nay, but a portion of armour scarce less important, though not so deadly.  What say you to a sword-belt?”

“Well, I am somewhat skilled in such gear.”

“I am ornamenting one for a friend of thine, Erling, but I will not tell his name unless I have thy promise not to mention to him anything about our conversation.”

“I promise,” said Erling, with an amused glance.

“It is for Glumm.”

“For Glumm!” repeated Erling in surprise; “does Glumm then know ­”

“Know what?” asked Ada, as Erling stopped abruptly.

“Does he know that thou art making this belt for him?”

“Know it? why, how could it be a secret if he knew it?”

“Ah, true, I ­well?”

“Besides,” continued Ada, “I am not making it; I said I was going to ornament it.  Now it is with reference to that I would consult thee.”

Here Ada became so deeply absorbed in the mysteries of ornamental armour that she constrained Erling at least to appear interested, although, poor man, his heart was behind him, and he had much difficulty in resisting the desire to turn round when he heard Hilda’s voice ­which, by the way, was heard pretty constantly, for Glumm was so uncommonly gruff and monosyllabic in his replies that she had most of the talking to herself.

This unpleasant state of things might have lasted a considerable time, had not the party reached the path which diverged to the left, and, crossing the river over a narrow bridge composed of two tall trees thrown across, led to Glummstede.  Here Erling stopped suddenly, and wheeling round, said: 

“I regret that we cannot go farther down the dale to-day, as Glumm and I must fare with all speed to the Springs to meet King Harald.”

“I trust thine errand is one of peace?” said Hilda in a slightly anxious tone.

“To judge by their looks,” said Ada, glancing expressively at Glumm, “I should say that their intentions were warlike!”

“Despite our looks,” replied Erling, with a laugh, “our business with the King is of a peaceful nature, and as it is pressing, ye will excuse us if ­”

“Oh! it is pressing, after all,” cried Ada; “come, sister, let us not delay them.”

So saying, she hurried away with her friend, and the two youths strode on to Glummstede in a very unenviable frame of mind.

Having refreshed themselves with several cuts of fresh salmon ­drawn that morning from the foaming river ­and with a deep horn of home-brewed ale, the young warriors mounted a couple of active horses, and rode up the mountain path that led in a zigzag direction over the fells to the valley of the Springs.  They rode in silence at first ­partly because the nature of the track compelled them to advance in single file, and partly because each was in the worst possible humour of which his nature was capable, while each felt indignant at the other, although neither could have said that his friend had been guilty of any definable sin.

It may here be mentioned in passing, that Glumm had clothed and armed himself much in the same fashion as his companion, the chief difference being that his helmet was of polished steel, and the centre of his shield was painted red, while that of Erling was white.  His only offensive weapons were a dagger and the long two-handed sword which had been forged for him by his friend, which latter was slung across his back.

An hour and a half of steady climbing brought the youths to the level summit of the hills, where, after giving their steeds a few minutes to breathe, they set off at a sharp gallop.  Here they rode side by side, but the rough nature of the ground rendered it necessary to ride with care, so that conversation, although possible, was not, in the circumstances, very desirable.  The silence, therefore, was maintained all the way across the fells.  When they came to descend on the other side they were again obliged to advance in single file, so that the silence remained unbroken until they reached the base of the mountains.

Here Erling’s spirit revived a little, and he began to realise the absurdity of the conduct of himself and his friend.

“Why, Glumm,” he exclaimed at last, “a dumb spirit must have got hold of us!  What possesses thee, man?”

“Truly it takes two to make a conversation,” said Glumm sulkily.

“That is as thou sayest, friend, yet I am not aware that I refused to talk with thee,” retorted Erling.

“Nor I with thee,” said Glumm sharply, “and thy tongue was glib enough when ye talked with Ada in Horlingdal.”

A light flashed upon Erling as his friend spoke.

“Why, Glumm,” he said lightly, “a pretty girl will make most men’s tongues wag whether they will or no.”

Glumm remembered his own obstinate silence while walking with Hilda, and deeming this a studied insult he became furious, reined up and said: 

“Come, Erling, if ye wish to settle this dispute at once we need fear no interruption, and here is a piece of level sward.”

“Nay, man, be not so hot,” said Erling, with a smile that still more exasperated his companion; “besides, is it fair to challenge me to fight with this light weapon while thou bearest a sword so long and deadly?”

“That shall be no bar,” cried the other, unslinging his two-handed sword; “thou canst use it thyself, and I will content me with thine.”

“And pray, how shall we give account of our mission,” said Erling, “if you and I cut each other’s heads off before fulfilling it?”

“That would then concern us little,” said Glumm.

“Nay, thou art more selfish than I thought thee, friend.  For my part, I would not that she should think me so regardless of her welfare as to leave undelivered a message that may be the means of preventing the ruin of Horlingdal.  My regard for Ada seems to sit more heavily on me than on thee.”

At this Glumm became still more furious.  He leaped off his horse, drew his sword, and flinging it down with the hilt towards Erling, cried in a voice of suppressed passion: 

“No longer will I submit to be trifled with by man or woman.  Choose thy weapon, Erling.  This matter shall be settled now and here, and the one who wins her shall prove him worthy of her by riding forth from this plain alone.  If thou art bent on equal combat we can fall to with staves cut from yonder tree, or, for the matter of that, we can make shift to settle it with our knives.  What! has woman’s love unmanned thee?”

At this Erling leaped out of the saddle, and drew his sword.

“Take up thy weapon, Glumm, and guard thee.  But before we begin, perhaps it would be well to ask for whose hand it is that we fight.”

“Have we not been talking just now of Ada the Dark-eyed?” said Glumm sternly, as he took up his sword and threw himself into a posture of defence, with the energetic action of a man thoroughly in earnest.

“Then is our combat uncalled for,” said Erling, lowering his point, “for I desire not the hand of Ada, though I would fight even to the death for her blue-eyed sister, could I hope thereby to win her love.”

“Art thou in earnest?” demanded Glumm in surprise.

“I never was more so in my life,” replied Erling; “would that Hilda regarded me with but half the favour that Ada shows to thee!”

“There thou judgest wrongly,” said Glumm, from whose brow the frown of anger was passing away like a thundercloud before the summer sun.  “I don’t pretend to understand a girl’s thoughts, but I have wit enough to see what is very plainly revealed.  When I walked with Hilda to-day I noticed that her eye followed thee unceasingly, and although she talked to me glibly enough, her thoughts were wandering, so that she uttered absolute nonsense at times ­insomuch that I would have laughed had I not been jealous of what I deemed the mutual love of Ada and thee.  No, Erling, thy suit will prosper, depend on’t.  It is I who have reason to despond, for Ada loves me not.”

Erling, who heard all this with a certain degree of satisfaction, smiled, shook his head, and said: 

“Nay, then, Glumm, thou too art mistaken.  The dark-eyed Ada laughs at everyone, and besides, I have good reason to know that her interest in thee is so great that she consulted me to-day about ­about ­a ­”

The promise of secrecy that he had made caused Erling to stammer and stop.

“About what?” asked Glumm.

“I may not tell thee, friend.  She bound me over to secrecy, and I must hold by my promise; but this I may say, that thou hast fully greater cause for hope than I have.”

“Then it is my opinion,” said Glumm, “that we have nothing to do but shake hands and proceed on our journey.”

Erling laughed heartily, sheathed his sword, and grasped his friend’s hand, after which they remounted and rode forward; but they did not now ride in silence.  Their tongues were effectually loosened, and for some time they discussed their respective prospects with all the warmth and enthusiasm of youthful confidants.

“But Ada perplexes me,” suddenly exclaimed Glumm, in the midst of a brief pause; “I know not how to treat her.”

“If thou wilt take my advice, Glumm, I will give it thee.”

“What is that?” asked Glumm.

“There is nothing like fighting a woman with her own weapons.”

“A pretty speech,” said Glumm, “to come from the lips of a man who never regards the weapons of his foes, and can scarce be prevailed on to carry anything but a beloved battle-axe.”

“The case is entirely the reverse when one fights with woman,” replied Erling.  “In war I confess that I like everything to be straightforward and downright, because when things come to the worst a man can either hew his way by main force through thick and thin, or die.  Truly, I would that it were possible to act thus in matters of love also, but this being impossible ­seeing that women will not have it so, and insist on dallying ­the next best thing to be done is to act on their own principles.  Fight them with their own weapons.  If a woman is outspoken and straightforward, a man should be the same ­and rejoice, moreover, that he has found a gem so precious.  But if she will play fast and loose, let a man ­if he does not give her up at once ­do the same.  Give Ada a little taste of indifference, Glumm, and thou wilt soon bring her down.  Laugh at her as well as with her.  Show not quite so much attention to her as has been thy wont; and be more attentive to the other girls in the dale ­”

“To Hilda, for instance,” said Glumm slyly.

“Aye, even so, an it please thee,” rejoined Erling; “but rest assured thou wilt receive no encouragement in that quarter; for Hilda the Sunbeam is the very soul of innocence, truth, and straightforwardness.”

“Not less so is Ada,” said Glumm, firing up at the implied contrast.

Erling made a sharp rejoinder, to which Glumm made a fierce reply; and it is probable that these hot-blooded youths, having quarrelled because of a misunderstanding in regard to their mistresses, would have come to blows about their comparative excellence, had they not come suddenly upon a sight which, for the time, banished all other thoughts from their minds.

During the discussion they had been descending the valley which terminated in the plain where the recent battle of the Springs had been fought.  Here, as they galloped across the field, which was still strewn with the bodies of the slain, they came upon the blackened ruins of a hut, around which an old hag was moving, actively engaged, apparently, in raking among the ashes with a forked stick for anything that she could draw forth.

Near to her a woman, who had not yet reached middle age, was seated on the burnt earth, with her hands tightly clasped, and her bloodshot eyes gazing with a stony stare at a blackened heap which lay on her lap.  As the young men rode up they saw that part of the head and face of a child lay in the midst of the charred heap, with a few other portions of the little one that had been only partially consumed in the fire.

The Northmen did not require to be told the cause of what they saw.  The story was too plainly written in everything around them to admit of uncertainty, had they even been ignorant of the recent fight and its consequences.  These were two of the few survivors of that terrible night, who had ventured to creep forth from the mountains and search among the ashes for the remains of those whose smiles and voices had once made the sunshine of their lives.  The terrible silence of these voices and the sight of these hideous remains had driven the grandmother of the household raving mad, and she continued to rake among the still smouldering embers of the old house, utterly regardless of the two warriors, and only complaining, in a querulous tone now and then, that her daughter should sit there like a stone and leave her unaided to do the work of trying to save at least some of the household from the flames.  But the daughter neither heard nor cared for her.  She had found what was left of her idol ­her youngest child ­once a ruddy, fearless boy, with curly flaxen hair, who had already begun to carve model longships and wooden swords, and to talk with a joyous smile and flashing eye of war! but now ­the fair hair gone, and nothing left save a blackened skull and a small portion of his face, scarcely enough ­yet to a mother far more than enough ­to recognise him by.

Erling and Glumm dismounted and approached the young woman, but received no glance of recognition.  To a remark made by Erling no reply was given.  He therefore went close to her, and, bending down, laid his large hand on her head, and gently smoothed her flaxen hair, while he spoke soothingly to her.  Still the stricken woman took no notice of him until a large hot tear, which the youth could not restrain, dropped upon her forehead, and coursed down her cheek.  She then looked suddenly up in Erling’s face and uttered a low wail of agony.

“Would ye slay her too?” shrieked the old woman at that moment, coming forward with the pole with which she had been raking in the ashes, as if she were going to attack them.

Glumm turned aside the point of the pole, and gently caught the old woman by the arm.

“Oh! spare her,” she cried, falling on her knees and clasping her withered hands; “spare her, she is the last left ­the last.  I tried to save the others ­but, but, they are gone ­all gone.  Will ye not spare her?”

“They won’t harm us, mother,” said the younger woman huskily.  “They are friends.  I know they are friends.  Come, sit by me, mother.”

The old woman, who appeared to have been subdued by exhaustion, crept on her hands and knees to her side, and laying her head on her daughter’s breast, moaned piteously.

“We cannot stay to aid thee,” said Erling kindly; “but that matters not because those will soon be here who will do their best for thee.  Yet if thou canst travel a few leagues, I will give thee a token which will ensure a good reception in my father’s house.  Knowest thou Haldorstede in Horlingdal?”

“I know it well,” answered the woman.

“Here is a ring,” said Erling, “which thou wilt take to Herfrida, the wife of Haldor, and say that her son Erling sent thee, and would have thee and thy mother well cared for.”

He took from his finger, as he spoke, a gold ring, and placed it in the woman’s hand, but she shook her head sadly, and said in an absent tone:  “I dare not go.  Swart might come back and would miss me.”

“Art thou the wife of Swart of the Springs?”

“Yes; and he told me not to quit the house till he came back.  But that seems so long, long ago, and so many things have happened since, that ­”

She paused and shuddered.

“Swart is dead,” said Glumm.

On hearing this the woman uttered a wild shriek, and fell backward to the earth.

“Now a plague on thy gruff tongue,” said Erling angrily, as he raised the woman’s head on his knee.  “Did you not see that the weight was already more than she could bear?  Get thee to the spring for water, man, as quickly as may be.”

Glumm, whose heart had already smitten him for his inconsiderate haste, made no reply, but ran to a neighbouring spring, and quickly returned with his helmet full of water.  A little of this soon restored the poor woman, and also her mother.

“Now haste thee to Horlingdal,” said Erling, giving the woman a share of the small supply of food with which he had supplied himself for the journey.  “There may be company more numerous than pleasant at the Springs to-morrow, and a hearty welcome awaits thee at Haldorstede.”

Saying this he remounted and rode away.

“I was told last night by Hilda,” said Erling, “that, when we were out after the Danes, and just before the attack was made by the men of their cutter on Ulfstede, the hermit had been talking to the women in a wonderful way about war and the God whom he worships.  He thinks that war is an evil thing; that to fight in self-defence ­that is, in defence of home and country ­is right, but that to go on viking cruise is wrong, and displeasing to God.”

“The hermit is a fool,” said Glumm bluntly.

“Nay, he is no fool,” said Erling.  “When I think of these poor women, I am led to wish that continued peace were possible.”

“But it is, happily, not possible; therefore it is our business to look upon the bright side of war,” said Glumm.

“That may be thy business, Glumm, but it is my business to look upon both sides of everything.  What would it avail thee to pitch and paint and gild the outside of thy longship, if no attention were given to the timbering and planking of the inside?”

“That is a different thing,” said Glumm.

“Yes, truly; yet not different in this, that it has two sides, both of which require to be looked at, if the ship is to work well.  I would that I knew what the men of other lands think on this point, for the hermit says that there are nations in the south where men practise chiefly defensive warfare, and often spend years at a time without drawing the sword.”

“Right glad am I,” said Glumm, with a grim smile, “that my lot has not fallen among these.”

“Do you know,” continued Erling, “that I have more than once thought of going off on a cruise far and wide over the world to hear and see what men say and do?  But something, I know not what, prevents me.”

“Perchance Hilda could tell thee!” said Glumm.

Erling laughed, and said there was some truth in that; but checked himself suddenly, for at that moment a man in the garb of a thrall appeared.

“Ho! fellow,” cried Glumm, “hast heard of King Harald Haarfager of late?”

“The King is in guest-quarters in Updal,” answered the thrall, “in the house of Jarl Rongvold, my master.”

“We must speed on,” said Erling to Glumm, “if we would speak with the King before supper-time.”

“If you would speak with the King at all,” said the thrall, “the less you say to him the better, for he is in no mood to be troubled just now.  He sets out for the Springs to-morrow morning.”

Without making a reply the youths clapped spurs to their horses and galloped away.