Then put it by.—See here; scrape the rust off the sword. FINN. [_Turning the sword over and examining it._] Is it worth while? BIÖRN. What mean you? FINN. The edge is gone. BIÖRN. What’s that to you? Give it me.—Here, take the shield. FINN. [_As before._] There is no grip to it! BIÖRN. [_Mutters._] Let me get a grip on _you_—— [FINN _hums to himself for a while._ BIÖRN. What now? FINN. An empty helmet, a sword with no edge, a shield with no grip—so it has all come to that. Who can blame Lady Inger if she leaves such weapons to hang scoured and polished on the walls, instead of rusting them in Danish blood? BIÖRN. Folly! Is there not peace in the land? FINN. Peace? Ay, when the peasant has shot away his last arrow, and the wolf has reft the last lamb from the fold, then is there peace between them. But ’tis a strange friendship. Well, well; let that pass. ’Tis fitting, as I said, that the harness hang bright in the hall; for you know the old saw: “Call none a man but the knightly man.” So now that we have never a knight in the land, we have never a man; and where no man is, there must women order things; therefore—— BIÖRN. Therefore—therefore I bid you hold your foul prate! [_Rises._ The evening wears on. Enough; you may hang the helmet and armour in the hall again. FINN. [_In a low voice._] Nay, best let it be till to-morrow. BIÖRN. What, do you fear the dark? FINN. Not by day. And if so be I fear it at even, I am not the only one. Ah, you may look; I tell you in the housefolk’s room there is talk of many things. [_Lower._] They say that, night by night, a tall figure, clad in black, walks the Banquet Hall. BIÖRN. Old wives’ tales! FINN. Ah, but they all swear ’tis true. BIÖRN. That I well believe. FINN. The strangest of all is that Lady Inger thinks the same—— BIÖRN. [_Starting._] Lady Inger? What does she think? FINN.