Of course the interview between Freydis and Finnbogi cannot be authentic, as no witness was left but Freydis herself, whose version would naturally be different, and the details of the story may well have been worked up by a later hand. But consider the facts apart from this: Freydis, a woman everywhere represented as of masculine temper, is married to a wealthy nonentity named Thorvard. From the contemptuous vituperation which Freydis pours upon her panic-stricken companions in the skræling fight in Hauk’s Book we get a fine insight into her character. She and her husband sail to Wineland with Helgi and Finnbogi, whom she swindles and bullies at every turn. The crews of the two ships are soon not on speaking terms; a very little more will lead to a violent encounter. The brothers have a much better ship than Freydis, and on this ship she, who has got her way in every other respect, has set her heart. She makes a fruitless attempt to bargain for the coveted vessel, as Ahab treated first for Naboth’s vineyard. Her overtures repulsed, she returns in a rage to her miserable and helpless husband, to whom she represents the conduct of Helgi and Finnbogi as an insult only to be wiped out in blood. The henpecked Thorvard is screwed to the sticking-place, he turns out his men, between whom and the rival crew there is already a quarrel, smouldering under the cover of an armed neutrality. The camp of the brothers is attacked, and the men are assassinated. The women remain, damning witnesses of the outrage, whom nevertheless male chivalry would spare. ‘Hand me an axe’, says Freydis (‘Infirm of purpose, give me the daggers’). The coup is not to be ruined by humanitarian scruples: dead men (and women) tell no tales. The massacre is completed. Surely it is all consistent with our experience of women of this type in history and even in modern life. Man draws the line, he is ruled by convention, there are ‘things no fellow can do’. Woman is a law to herself, and as a result there are heights to which she climbs where no man’s ideals will follow, and depths to which she falls from which men are fortunately protected. With men, treachery and cowardice go hand in hand; in women a masculine bravery seems merely to kill their natural delicacy and horror of blood, they can be brave and yet sink to the lowest excesses of meanness and cruelty. Judith, Jezebel, Lady Macbeth—how brave they are, and yet how disgracefully treacherous! It is of course a matter for individual judgement: the touchstone for such a tale is not to be found among the canons of criticism. To me this dreadful story reads as one of the most natural, consistent, and human episodes in history; and though of course such characterization is not beyond the powers of a brilliant writer of fiction, it seems to me far more reasonable to accept it as authentic history. Why should this awful libel disfigure the annals of the distinguished house of Eric the