An old woman, wrapped in a dark garment, sat almost motionless upon the
bench in the warm sunshine. Thin locks of beautiful white hair escaped
from beneath the edge of the brown cloak drawn over her head; her hands
alone stirred with a slight, regular motion. When the youth's footsteps
echoed on the sandy slope of the hillock, she paused in her work and
bent forward to listen; then nodding, murmured under her breath:
"That's why she slipped away."
"Hail to you, Waldrun!" said the youth, pausing before her. "Don't be
frightened--it is I--"
"Adalo, the young noble," interrupted the old woman. "Only the
evil-doers fear _you_."
"You recognize me?"
"When the gods blind the eyes, they give sight to the soul. Though your
light footstep rarely rings near me now, I know it well. I often hear
it as you hurry past our home, avoiding the house by taking a wide
circuit. No one save Bruna, your tame bear, comes to us by daylight
from the manor; for you have doubtless forbidden even your fair-haired
little brother to visit our house. But brutes are more loyal than human
beings: often, very often, Bruna seeks my little maid and Zercho the
bondman. When she brings us a wreath of the child's favorite flowers
wound around her neck and growling, drags it off to her lap, we know
well that the boy Sippilo, not you, sent it. By day you shun us! But--"
She bent forward and lowered her voice to a whisper: the youth glanced
around in surprise; surely they were still alone--"but by night you
often approach stealthily."
Adalo flushed crimson, and sought to divert her thoughts. "Can you spin
without seeing?"
"The youngest of the three great Sisters--who was born blind--spins the
future of the whole human race. And what I am spinning is as familiar
to my fingers as to my thoughts."
"What is it?"
"My shroud. But I do not think that Adalo, son of Adalger, came hither
to question Waldrun concerning her thoughts of death. Do you seek my
son? Suomar has not yet returned from the Council."
"I do not seek him--he sends me. The Council--last night on Odin's
Mountain--resolved to destroy all the houses and harvests." The youth's
noble, handsome countenance beamed with the fierce menacing joy of
battle as he added: "_The Romans_ are coming."
"They will not tarry long," said the old woman, calmly going on with
her spinning. "I have often seen them dash forward in all the pride of
strength, and soon sink feebly back again."
"You women, those unable to bear arms, the slaves, and the cattle are
to be received in two fortresses far away from the lake--one on Odin's
Mountain in the west, the other among the eastern marshes. We shall
form two divisions: one stationed in the east, the other in the west.
Your son is assigned to the eastern band; he was sent directly from the
council to the swamps. The troop will go through the fords there and
strengthen the breastwork of logs around the meadows to prevent the
entrance of the Italians."
"Then we must hasten eastward to the morasses. We shall be nearer to
him there."
Adalo hesitated. His face again crimsoned and he cast a keen glance at
the door of the house ere he began: "That was his first idea--and by
the decree of the people the fugitives were thus divided. But--some one
else--a friend--counselled him not to hide you in the swamps, but--on
the Holy Mountain."
"You belong to the western band--on the mountain."
Adalo made no reply.
"You gave him that counsel, Adalo!"
"I do not deny it; you know that I mean kindly. You will be better
concealed on the lofty wooded summit of Odin's Mountain than in the
marshes. Life in the fever-breeding swamps is full of discomfort--the
disease often attacks the inhabitants--and it is not so safe. The
eastern band will not remain in your hiding place: Suomar himself
cannot protect you; concealment is your sole defence. But on Odin's
Mountain, far up within the stone fortress, the gods of the land
themselves will shield you. And the life there in the woodland huts and
tents built of green branches will be more comfortable and pleasant.
And--" he spoke slowly and modestly--"I myself will be there to defend
you. Follow me,--to-morrow it may be too late,--follow me at once!"
Just at that moment two acorns fell rattling on the top of the rude
stone table and rebounded to the earth. Adalo looked up. "A squirrel?"
he asked.
"Yes. A _red_ one," added the old woman, nodding. "It often plays its
saucy pranks up there. They are sometimes very spiteful."
"Indeed they are," replied Adalo, laughing. "One which I once caught
nearly bit through my finger. There!"
Waldrun felt the fore-finger of his outstretched hand, then without
releasing it, said: "There is another scar close by. My naughty
granddaughter bit you years ago--do you remember? How did it happen?"
"It was at the spring festival. The west wind was blowing furiously,
like the very breath of Odin. She ventured alone in your mouldering
boat--the old one hollowed from a log--to cross the lake. The others
jeered at her--I pleaded. Every effort was vain. Springing into the
skiff, she pushed off: if she passed beyond the rushes into the open
water she was lost. I ran after her, waded, swam, and dragged her from
the boat, just as it upset. I carried her to the shore, while she
writhed and struggled, spitting like an otter, and, by way of thanks,
bit my finger."
"And then," replied Waldrun reprovingly, "some spiteful tongue uttered
the saying,
"'Sharp is the squirrel's scratch,
Bissula's bite is sharper.'
"The saying ran through the district, nay, all the provinces by the
lake. Wherever my granddaughter went, to pick berries in summer, to
comb the flax, to glean, to mow, to thresh--everywhere the jeering
couplet greeted her. That was not kind. Or wise!" she added in a lower
tone.
"Mother Waldrun, you are right: it was not well done, but no harm was
meant."
"Yes, yes, Odin placed the song in your reckless lips and gave you the
winged words, the biting jest. You cannot help it! Wherever you see a
tempting mark, the arrow of a mocking speech whizzes from your mouth."
"But unvenomed, unbarbed. A blunt little shaft like that with which we
strike the pretty red-breast, Donar's favorite, not to harm it, nay,
only to capture it unhurt and bear it home to our hearths that it may
sing sweetly to us year after year."
"Beware! Everything that has the red hue is passionate, swift to
revenge, and slow to forgive.
"Yes," replied the youth laughing. "How runs another verse?
"'Dost vex little Red Hair?
I bid thee beware!
The fair one fear.
She's false and spits her ire
Like the fox and the fire.'"
Scarcely was the last line uttered when, high among the topmost boughs
of the lofty tree, a strange sound was heard. At the very summit the
noise resembled spitting and rattling, while below it was different,
like something sliding down the trunk. The first sounds undoubtedly
came from a little squirrel, which, startled by some disturbance,
chattering and hissing in fear or anger, sprang in a wide curve yet
with a sure leap from the topmost bough of the tree to a neighboring
oak which stood at a considerable distance.