“_He that guesseth, often goes wrong_”
—Northern saying.
In the sudden darkness that shut down upon them, the Songsmith felt
Helvin’s body dash against his, heard Helvin’s hiss at his ear:
“Let me after him,—do you hear?”
“Let you betray your state to all men? Lord, I have saved your secret—”
“I will kill him only for coming so near to guessing it!”
“Has all sense left you?”
“Off, or he will reach the hall-door before I can catch him! Would you
turn my wrath upon yourself?”
“Keep your wrath within bounds, lord, as I kept mine. Do you suppose
that after stripping off my pride to wrap it about your cursed secret, I
shall allow your folly to undo—”
“Allow? Mother of Heaven! do you know what you are defying?”
“Do you forget that I am not the rabbit-hearted thing I feigned to be—”
“Out of the way!”
“No—”
Short as the word was, it was cut in two by the slam of the great doors
at the guard-room’s farther end. One breath Randvar let out in relief,
then drew in one in dread and braced himself for the grapple.
But nothing came.
No use to strain his eyes, for darkness was now so thick upon them that
it carried a sense of smothering with it. He strained his woodsman’s
ear, trained to catch the lightest bending of a twig beneath a fox’s
foot, but not so much as the sound of a faintly drawn breath rewarded
him. Delicately as a butterfly uses its feelers, he put out a finger,
then, and found that the spot where Helvin had stood was empty. More
silent than the stealthiest wind that tries to creep unnoted through the
forest, he had withdrawn to some quarter of the darkness.
From his head to his feet, shuddering shook the song-maker as his mind
strove to follow that withdrawal to its goal, to picture him who stood
hidden there. The temptation to let in the firelight to show what thing
he faced was so torture-strong that he took his hands off the
door-panels on which they were spread out and locked them before him,
and gave himself the relief of speaking Helvin’s name in a low voice,
entreating, soothing.
No answer came. A windless cavern in the marrow of the earth’s bones had
not been stiller. From the living-room without came the rattle of knife
and trencher, as the evening meal wore on; the clink of horns with the
arrival of drinking-time; by-and-by, snatches of maudlin song. Even the
shuffling patter of the thralls the Songsmith caught through the oaken
panels, but in the room where he kept vigil, only the thundering echo of
his heart throbbing in his ears.
Perhaps its pealing was enough to blunt his hearing. Though he detected
no rustle of approach, his cheek was touched of a sudden by a fiery
breath, which like a poisonous vapor brought with it dizzy horror. The
torture of two hands falling stealthily upon his shoulders—tightening
swift to the grip of claws—recalled him for an instant to himself; then
again his brain whirled, as a bushy thing that he knew for the mass of
Helvin’s blood-red hair was pressed against his face.
Back from it he strained with all his might, fought it off with all the
power of his toughened sinews; but with a strength beyond the strength
of man, the hands drew him slowly steadily downward.
Suddenly, to his mounting madness, it was no longer Helvin with whom he
struggled. It was some being from another world, some nameless Thing
against which his gorge rose up in loathing hate. Twice he gasped out
warning, then loosened his grasp on the bushy hair, wrenched out his
sword and stabbed downward.
With the sinking of blade in flesh, a sharp unhuman scream rang out; the
clutch on his shoulders loosened. Even before he could tear off the
dragging weight and hurl it from him, it had fallen heavily, shaking the
timbered floor.
Like an echo came cries from the guard-room without, thunder of feet,
clangor of weapons. Randvar was sent staggering across the room as the
door behind him was burst open by a dozen brawny shoulders. On the
threshold appeared Visbur, the grizzled old leader; behind him,
two-score excited faces.
On the threshold they paused, staring at the sight the inrushing
firelight revealed,—Helvin Jarl lying in a pool of blood; beyond him the
figure of his song-maker, bristling-haired, a bloody sword in his hand.
Half wrathful, half incredulous, their voices rose:
“Rolf’s son a traitor!”
But no thought had the Songsmith for them. On the face upturned from the
blood pool his gaze was riveted. It was Helvin’s face, unmarred,
unchanged; in the gray eyes only unutterable anguish; anguish
unutterable on the finely cut mouth that was trying vainly to form and
send forth words. It was Helvin, his friend, that his madness had laid
low. With a hoarse cry, he flung the weapon from him, and turned and
buried his head in the bed-curtains.
As from a distance, he heard the scuffling of feet staggering under a
heavy burden, and felt the jar of the bed as they lowered their load
upon it; but he came back to consciousness only when stern hands laid
hold of him and drew him from his shelter. He realized, then, the
consequences of his deed as he met the awful reproach of the looks bent
on him and saw the barrier of crossed spears that had been set before
him.
Visbur said: “Chief, there is no need for us to wait for lawmen. Say
only whether he is to be shot or hanged.”
Pushing off those who were trying to cut away his robe and find his
wound, the Jarl dragged himself up by the bed-draperies, turning a
ghastly face upon the room.
“Free him,” his lips made out to shape.
After a bewildered pause, the old warrior said slowly: “I suppose what
you are trying to order is, ‘Slay him,’ not understanding that I said it
should be done before the clots on his blade were dry. All I ask, chief,
is in what manner he is to suffer death?”
With as much force as his half-swoon left him, the Jarl shook his head,
repeating the words so that there was no mistaking them: “Free him—and
let him to me.”
But even as the Songsmith turned, speaking his friend’s name unsteadily,
Visbur made his men a sign; and the spear-wall remained.
“Hold him and take him forth,” the leader commanded. “Starkad’s son has
gone astray out of his wits. I will answer for the act when he is sane
again.”
“You will answer—with your life,” the Jarl said between gasping breaths.
“While I live—I shall have my way. And my luck is not so good that I am
dying. It is no more than a flesh-wound. I swooned from—from my rage.
Let him to me.”
This time he stretched out a shaking hand, and the spears fell. In a
moment the Songsmith was kneeling beside the bed, the arm that had so
nearly mastered him lying around his neck.
“Tell them—enough. Enough to clear yourself,” Helvin murmured.
Around the circle of hard old faces that until now had met his glance so
cordially, Rolf’s son sent a beseeching look, then dropped his eyes in
despair.
“Jarl, I could never say so much as to make them believe me; before them
I stand proved a traitor who has turned blade against his lord. And how
shall I speak against the truth of that judgment? I am every man’s
dastard. Lord, I would as lief go out with them.” His voice broke, and
he did not seek to mend it.
But Helvin spoke as curtly as his faintness allowed, “Raise me up,” and
when that was done, “Bring me wine.” From the beaker, he lifted a face
pitched to determination.
“Let all listen to my words, that I need not speak twice. He bore from
me more than any of you would have borne. He lost his temper only when I
drove him to frenzy. He struck only to save his life.”
“To save his life, chief? And you with bare hands!” old Visbur said
slowly.
Of a sudden, sick shuddering seized upon the Jarl, so that his head
drooped and sank. But even as they started towards him, he raised
it—raised himself with the force of his passion.
“Now damnation take such loyalty!” he cried. “I have told you that he is
not guilty as you think,—I will lower myself to no more explaining. He
goes free because I will it. And if any man reports this happening
outside, so that even in people’s thoughts my friend be held up to
reproach, that man shall be outlawed, and have my wrath besides. Bear
that in mind—and leave me now to him—whose support I have always found
best.”
Upon the song-maker’s shoulder he fell, spent; and the guard who went
last from the room heard his moan:
“My friend, my friend, this is that one thing that could tear us
asunder! It will be your life or mine.”
The man had passed out of hearing when Randvar answered slowly: “If that
be true, lord, then mine is the life that will end. I know now which
would be the easier to bear.”