HALLGERD (_seating herself in the high-seat_) It is an Irish hound, from that strange soil Where men by day walk with unearthly eyes And cross the veils of the air, and are not men But fierce abstractions eating their own hearts Impatiently and seeing too much to be joyful. If Gunnar welcomed ye, ye may remain. BIARTEY She is a fair free lady, is she not? But that was to be looked for in a high one Who counts among her fathers the bright Sigurd, The bane of Fafnir the Worm, the end of the god-kings; Among her mothers Brynhild, the lass of Odin, The maddener of swords, the night-clouds' rider. She has kept sweet that father's lore of bird-speech, She wears that mother's power to cheat a god. Sisters, she does well to be proud. JOFRID and GUDFINN Ay, well. HALLGERD (_shaping the tissue with her shears_) I need no witch to tell I am of rare seed, Nor measure my pride nor praise it. Do I not know? Old women, ye are welcomed: sit with us, And while we stitch tell us what gossip runs-- But if strife might be warmed by spreading it. BIARTEY Lady, we are hungered; we were lost All night among the mountains of the East; Clouds of the cliffs come down my eyes again. I pray you let some thrall bring us to food. HALLGERD Ye get nought here. The supper is long over; The women shall not let ye know the food-house, Or ye'll be thieving in the night. Ye are idle, Ye suck a man's house bare and seek another. 'Tis bed-time; get to sleep--that stills much hunger. BIARTEY Now it is easy to be seeing what spoils you. You were not grasping or ought but over warm When Sigmund, Gunnar's kinsman, guested here. You followed him, you were too kind with him, You lavished Gunnar's treasure and gear on him To draw him on, and did not call that thieving. Ay, Sigmund took your feuds on him and died As Gunnar shall. Men have much harm by you. HALLGERD Now have I gashed the golden cloth awry: 'Tis ended--a ruin of clouts--the worth of the gift-- Bridal dish-clouts--nay, a bundle of flame I'll burn it to a breath of its old queen's ashes: Fire, O fire, drink up. (_She throws the shreds of the veil on the glowing embers: they waft to ashes with a brief high flare. She goes to_ JOFRID.) There's one of you That holds her head in a bird's sideways fashion: I know that reach o' the chin.--What's under thy hair?-- (_She fixes JOFRID with her knee, and lifts her hair._) Pfui,'tis not hair, but sopped and rotting moss-- A thief, a thief indeed.--And twice a thief. She has no ears. Keep thy hooked fingers still While thou art here, for if I miss a mouthful Thou shalt miss all thy nose. Get up, get up; I'll lodge ye with the mares.