THORSTEIN SEES GHOSTS.
“And so, friends,” said King Domhnaill, ending his speech, “we betake
ourselves to the great road under Blencathra, and if the men of
Athacliath come in peace, it shall be peace: but if in war, war let it
be.”
Then all the Northmen took their weapons and shouted aye to what he had
said: and the meeting broke up, and men moved away in groups towards
the deep dale that led northward from Legburthwaite. Some sought their
horses, and some were for lading their gear: and everything was in hurry
and turmoil.
“Hundi,” said Thorstein, leaning on his brother’s shoulder, “Seest thou
yon fell? they call it the Benn in their tongue, the fell-folk: and
up yonder are the houses where the beauty lives: and behind it is the
giant’s castle, where I was with—with her that’s gone. Little did I think
when we fled away over fells and dells and mountain moors, how it would
end with all of us.”
“Leave thy maundering, man, and come to see what uproar is yonder,” said
Hundi; for among the men left behind by the main guard there were shrieks
and shouts, that seemed to mean no good. It was but a step, and they
found among the rough followers of Domhnaill, struggling and crying, who
but Aluinn? whom they rescued, not without hard knocks. But still she
went on like one wild, and it was long before they could get reasonable
speech out of her. As they led her away, sore against her will it
seemed, in spite of the mishandling she had got, they heard her story bit
by bit.
What came out was this;—that she had gone like any other to the camp
where the Welsh king lay, and coming to his tent door was for marching
in. Who but she had the right, indeed? But within was another woman, with
two sturdy lads at her knees, and a fair woman too. “Who is this?” says
the woman. “Who is this?” says Aluinn, and shows the collar of gold that
certain lover once gave her. With that the wife bids her begone for a
slut; and then Aluinn gives her words, and gets to blows: when in comes
Domhnaill with little love in his looks, and to make short work of it,
turns her out to his rascals.
“The nithing!” cries Hundi. Thorstein said little, but set his teeth and
growled, remembering what was heard and said at Alclyde.
But when the fell-folk that dwelt about Armboth heard the tale, Aluinn’s
own neighbours whose pet and pride she was, you may guess if they vowed
vows and threatened threats. As they shook their weapons Hundi plucked
his brother by the sleeve. “We do no good here,” said he, “and may come
to harm. Hie thy ways along with me, or we are shamed men at the tryst.”
So they got off without leavetaking, and footed it down the dale that now
we call the vale of St. John: for their nags were gone in the tumult,
and not a soul in sight.
Along the old road they passed, bemired as it was with the trampling of
man and horse in that foul weather, and at every wath the beck was a
torrent. But since the track lay fairly high on the fellside it lay dry,
if aught was dry, and was not lost in swamp like the flats in middale. In
the space of an hour or two they spied a great flickering of weapons and
things waving under Blencathra, and guessed that the kings had already
met, and spoken each other fair, and were now settling down for the
night: for they could spy tents going up and smoke starting. And so in a
while they were among their friends, supping and singing round a fire in
the open, until men dropped off one by one to sleep where they sat.
But Thorstein slept little for thinking of Aluinn and her wrongs. She
was as it were a ghost of his old life come back from the dead, and
little ease it was to think of those times, and then again of these. For,
thinking of Aluinn, he could not but think of Raineach who was dead:
and how he had loved her, and how fain he would be if he could but get
the sight of her face once more. “Ah my dear,” he cried, half aloud,
and opened his arms and turned over on his side, for his heart was sore
within him. But only the heap of snoring soldiers lay around, under
Blencathra and the lowering cloud. And yet, what was that face that
flitted over the heap, gleaming in the red glow?
His blood ran cold to the finger-tips, and he clenched his hands. He had
wished, and his wish had come to pass. It was her ghost, he thought: for
ghosts come when they are called. The hair tingled on his head, he was
so terrified. Then he shut his eyes tight, and drew up his knees, and
doubled his arms over his face, and lay there for a while, still as a
hedgehog when it is scared, and curls itself up.
At last the terror began to die away. He said to himself that it was but
his own thoughts his eyes had seen; and he could not help looking again.
There was a gap in the clouds, and a star. The fire was not so bright.
Nothing did he see beyond the men who lay around, though he fixed his
eyes on the spot where the vision had been, as if he dared it to come
again. But it came not. By and by there was a stir behind him, as of the
wind rising in the trees. He turned sharply round, and there!
But it was gone again: and once more he lay quaking, with cold in all his
limbs, and in his heart an agony which he could not understand, like a
child when it is beaten for something it has not done, and cannot tell
the truth: blank misery as when one is utterly spent with sickness. He
lay staring at the black cloud overhead, and it was an ugly thing coiling
over him. He shut his eyes and dreamed over the days of long ago: of the
wild, proud slip of a girl that hunted and fished with him at Greenodd:
of the poor little ugly, blubbered face that leaned over his, when he
was a child captive in the giant’s hut on the fells; the tears that made
dirty water-courses among the freckles,—how he remembered them, and every
eager feature he had loathed at first and loved ever after. He brought to
mind how he had opened his eyes after his sickness, wearily and lazily;
and then!