"Evil words," said Waldrun reprovingly, "which were not given to you by Odin the Wise, but by Loki! Why do you scorn the protection your neighbor offers? You grew up together like brother and sister, constant playfellows on the shore and the lake." "Until the neighbor discovered that he was the rich, strong young noble, skilled in song; the 'handsome' Adalo--as all the silly girls whisper. He handsome? He is hideous. His name is forever ringing in one's ears throughout the whole region in every dwelling along the lake. Who is the boldest hero in the Roman war? The stoutest swimmer, the most successful hunter? The victor in wrestling, hurling stones, casting the spear? Who leaps highest in the sword dance? To whom do even the gray-beards listen in the Council? At whom do the maidens peep at the sun-festival? Adalo! Adalo! Adalo!--The arrogant fellow! It is unbearable." The angry maiden pressed both little clenched hands over her eyes to shut out the sight of the foe she so fervently hated. "Would arrogance bring me here with this entreaty?" "Ay; sheer arrogance! When, during the spinning in the winter and the hay-making in the autumn, the girls talked about you, I said little; I only listened. It was rumored that Jetto, the rich lord of the manor, was beginning--he took the first step--to treat with Adalo concerning a marriage with his daughter, Jettaberga. Jettaberga is the handsomest girl in the lake region--" "That is not true," said Adalo earnestly. "Her kinsmen, next to your own family, have the largest number of spears and of cattle, are the richest in shields and in lands." "That is true," he answered, nodding assent. "But Adalo refused the offer as soon as it was sufficiently well known in the neighborhood that Jetto himself had proposed to give him his daughter because both clans would have profited by the alliance--" "Especially Jetto!" interrupted Waldrun. "And because Jettaberga thought the young nobleman was handsomer than any other man." "That is probably _not_ true!" remarked the latter, smiling pleasantly. "Yes, it is true!" exclaimed Bissula vehemently. "Don't deny it. She told me so." "I wish to hear nothing about it, Bissula--chatterer!" said the grandmother reproachfully. The girl bit her lips. "Pshaw, he knew it; or he believed he knew it, as he believes it of all girls. And so it must seem to him and his companions that Bissula also (who, it is true, is neither rich nor beautiful--only Bissula, who is defiant and tameless), that I, too, instead of going to the marshes would rather flee to the Holy Mountain--to Adalo! But"--and now her eyes blazed with an almost menacing light--"you shall never boast of _that_!" "But if I command?" warned the old woman. "Then I'll run off to the swamps alone. Forgive me, dear, dear grandmother; but Suomar is my guardian, not you. Did he command? Speak!" "He only advised," replied Adalo reluctantly.