They took him to the hall and there, as he entered, he beheld the prince seated at the middle of the table and at his right hand and his left a great and motley company of wild and savage men, on the faces of most of whom drunkenness had left its mark. The prince himself was a man of bloated visage, but well featured and powerful of form and with an air of some courtliness. He was, moreover, much younger than most of his companions. At his right hand sat Torfrida dressed in red and cloth of gold, a jewel of wondrous beauty in her hair. Feargus thought her pale at first, but so lively and bright was she, and so merrily she chatted with the prince, that he was surprised. Instead of finding her distressed he found her gay, and so far from being appalled by the thought of her marriage with the prince on the coming day, she was bright and lively. Feargus looked again—this was no feigned composure or merriment. Had she forgotten him, and, glad to escape the dangers of their journey, was she going to wed the prince? The thought flashed across his brain only to be crushed back, and he was ashamed that it had even entered his heart. A merry peal of laughter rang through the hall and thrilled him, and the thought returned again, again to be forced back. Then he struck his harp, avoiding all those airs which Torfrida knew, and so, the meal over, Torfrida sped lightly through the hall to her chamber leaning on the arm of the prince. Feargus stood up in the corridor as they passed, for move he could not, and he watched him bid her farewell at the door, she giving him her hand to kiss and waving it to him as he passed along to the hall. And when the door of her chamber closed on her Feargus felt his knees give under him; his strength melted away; his body shook so that his harp nigh fell from his hands. Anger against her he felt none but only grief. There life ended for him; all the pain, the weariness, the danger he had passed through for her and with her, returned to him and crushed him. Now he was in the snowstorm, now in the robbers’ cave, now he leapt into the waters of Aire after the host of Penda; now she plucked him by the beard and awoke him from his madness with her touch—how beautiful she looked in that moment of recognition, was ever human creature so lovely before! Then he saw her dying face upturned in the boat and cut his arm that she might drink. Anger—no, he could never feel anger towards her, and towards him—if she loved him he should go unscathed, and what help he could give should be his. Then the water gathered in his eyes and despair seized him, and he groped with his hand for his sword to slay himself, and then he staggered forward a step or two and sank to earth knowing no more. CHAPTER XXV OF THE FEAST IN SIEGFRIED’S HALL