In those two days and nights the Viking’s wife saw clearly how it was with her little child. And dreadful indeed was the spell that lay on it. By day it was as beautiful as an angel of light, but it had a bad, evil disposition. By night, on the other hand, it was a hideous toad, quiet, sad, with sorrowful eyes. It had two natures, which changed with its outward form. And so it was that the baby, brought by the stork, had by daylight its mother’s own rightful shape, but its father’s temper; while again, night made the kinship with him evident in the bodily form, in which, however, dwelt the mother’s mind and heart. Who could loose the spell cast by the power of witchcraft? The Viking’s wife was worn and distressed about it, and her heart was heavy for the unhappy being, of whose condition she did not think that she dared tell her husband if he came home then, for he would certainly follow the custom and practice of the time, and expose the poor child on the high-road for any one that liked to take away. The good dame had not the heart to do this: her husband should see the child only by daylight. One morning the wings of storks were heard above the roof. More than a hundred pairs of the birds had rested themselves for the night after their heavy exercise, and they now flew up, preparatory to starting southwards. ‘All ready, and the wives and children?’ was their cry. ‘Oh, I’m so light,’ said the young storks. ‘My bones feel all kribly-krably, as if I was filled with live frogs! How splendid it is to have to go abroad!’ ‘Keep up in the flight,’ said father and mother, ‘and don’t chatter so much; it tires the chest.’ And they flew. At the same moment a horn sounded over the moor. The Viking had landed with all his men, returning laden with booty from the coasts of Gaul, where the people, like those of Britain, used to chant in their terror: ‘From the rage of the Northmen, Lord, deliver us!’ Guess what stir and festival now came to the Viking’s stronghold near the moor! A barrel of mead was brought into hall; a huge fire was lighted; horses were slaughtered; everything went duly. The heathen priest sprinkled the slaves with warm blood, to begin their new life; the fire crackled; the smoke curled under the roof; the soot fell down from the beams--but they were used to that. Guests were invited, and received valuable gifts. Plots and treachery were forgotten; they drank deep and threw the picked bones in each other’s faces in good-humoured horse-play. The bard--a kind of musician, but a warrior as well, who went with them, saw their exploits, and sang about them--gave them a song in which they heard all their warrior-deeds and feats of prowess. Each verse ended with the refrain: ‘Wealth, kindred, life cannot endure, But the warrior’s glory standeth sure.’ And they all clashed upon their shields, and beat upon the table with knives and fists, and made great clamour.