‘The Wild-wood holdeth many marvels, and these be of them: the spawn of evil wights quickeneth therein, and at other whiles it melteth away again like the snow; so may it be with these carcasses.’ And some of the older folk of the Woodlanders who stood by hearkened what he said, and deemed his words wise, for they remembered their ancient lore and many a tale of old time. Thereafter they of Burgstead went into Wood-grey’s hall, or as many of them as might, for it was but a poor place and not right great. There they saw the goodman laid on the daïs in all his war-gear, under the last tie-beam of his hall, whereon was carved amidst much goodly work of knots and flowers and twining stems the image of the Wolf of the Waste, his jaws open and gaping: the wife and daughters of the goodman and other women of the folk stood about the bier singing some old song in a low voice, and some sobbing therewithal, for the man was much beloved: and much people of the Woodlanders was in the hall, and it was somewhat dusk within. So the Burgstead men greeted that folk kindly and humbly, and again they fell to praising the dead man, saying how his deed should long be remembered in the Dale and wide about; and they called him a fearless man and of great worth. And the women hearkened, and ceased their crooning and their sobbing, and stood up proudly and raised their heads with gleaming eyes; and as the words of the Burgstead men ended, they lifted up their voices and sang loudly and clearly, standing together in a row, ten of them, on the daïs of that poor hall, facing the gable and the wolf-adorned tie-beam, heeding nought as they sang what was about or behind them. And this is some of what they sang: Why sit ye bare in the spinning-room? Why weave ye naked at the loom? Bare and white as the moon we be, That the Earth and the drifting night may see. Now what is the worst of all your work? What curse amidst the web shall lurk? The worst of the work our hands shall win Is wrack and ruin round the kin. Shall the woollen yarn and the flaxen thread Be gear for living men or dead? The woollen yarn and the flaxen thread Shall flare ’twixt living men and dead. O what is the ending of your day? When shall ye rise and wend away? Our day shall end to-morrow morn, When we hear the voice of the battle-horn. Where first shall eyes of men behold This weaving of the moonlight cold? There where the alien host abides The gathering on the Mountain-sides. How long aloft shall the fair web fly When the bows are bent and the spears draw nigh? From eve to morn and morn till eve Aloft shall fly the work we weave. What then is this, the web ye win? What wood-beast waxeth stark therein? We weave the Wolf and the gift of war From the men that were to the men that are.