The fever seemed to eat Thorstan up; he became so thin that his cheeks sank away into hollows, and his bones stuck out so sharply that the skin cracked. Gudrid began to have horror of him. She thought that her lover was dead, and that this was some terrible mock-image of him sent there to haunt her. She seemed to become younger as he grew more like an old man. She was afraid to be left alone with him. Love had been frightened out of her, and even pity scarce dared to be there. She could not believe that this was the man who had so keenly loved and worshipped her body, and by his music had uplifted her soul. She had seen Thore die and had been compassionate to the end. She remembered how she had kissed him in the very article of death, and shuddered as she thought of kissing this living corpse. Her eyes besought Thorstan Black not to leave her, and he rarely did—for by this time her husband's weakness was such that, whatever he may have said in his fever, he could hardly be heard.

Towards the end—as Thorstan Black knew it must be—he persuaded Gudrid to lie down at night while he kept watch by the bed. And so she did. The poor girl was worn out, and went to sleep almost at once.

About midnight she was awakened. Thorstan Black stood by the bed with a taper. She gaped at him, cold to the bones.

"Come, my dear," he said. "He is asking for you." She said nothing. Then in the silence she heard her husband's voice, calling "Gudrid, Gudrid, Gudrid." She fell trembling, and knew not what she said. Thorstan Black put his cloak over her, and helped her out of bed. Her knees shook. "Is he dead? Is he dead? Oh, don't leave me. I'm frightened—he looks so strange—don't leave me, Thorstan."

"No, my dear, I won't leave you," he said, and put his arm round her, for she seemed about to fall. "Come," he said, "I'll take you, and stay by you."

She mastered her fear. "Yes," she said, "I must go. Oh, but you are so good to me."

"Don't go if you are afraid," said Thorstan. "He may be dead by now."

"No, no," she said, "not yet. I must hear what he says, for it may be he knows what the course of my life must be. If God will help me, I will go. But you will come too—you promised."

Thorstan thereupon lifted her up in his arms, and carried her into the room where Thorstan Ericsson lay. He went to the side of the bed and sat down, holding Gudrid on his knee. So they waited fearfully for the dead man to speak.

Thorstan Ericsson sat up in his bed; his eyes were so deep in his head that nothing showed of them but dark caves. His mouth was open, as if his jaw had dropped. But no sound came from him.

Then Thorstan Black said: "My namesake, you called to Gudrid, and I have her here beside you. What do you desire of her?"

The dead man spoke. "Gudrid, are you there?"

"Yes, Thorstan," she said quaking.

"I will tell you, my wife, that you need not grieve for me, nor fear me, for I shall never hurt you now—nor could I have the heart. I am come to a good place, and am at peace. Now you are to know that you will be married to an Icelander who will be kind to you, and give you what your heart desires. But your life will be longer than his, and your end will be pious—and that, too, you will desire before you reach it. And I pray you to take my body back to Ericsfrith and give me holy burial. Farewell, Gudrid, and have no fear for me."

Gudrid, cold as a stone, sat on Thorstan Black's knee as if she had been a child, and stared at the figure of her love. She could not say anything to him, she dared not touch him. His head sank forward, and he fell back in the bed and lay still. Thorstan Black touched him. He was stone cold.

The good giant thought now of Gudrid only, and talked to her gently for a long while, comforting her. He promised that he would never forsake her until he had brought her safely home to Ericsfrith. He would take Thorstan Ericsson to his own ship, and all the bodies of the crew who were dead should be put with him there until such time as they could sail. "And as for you, dear child," he said, "remember that you and that true man have had the best that life can give you—for than wedded love there is no more blessed thing. Think of me, my child, who lived happily with my good wife a twenty years, and think that you are better off maybe than I. For love such as yours is not a thing that can live—no, but it must needs change as it grows older. You change, and the world comes in between; and so it changes too. Now you have had love at the full—and it is ended at the full. You should be thankful for that. And be thankful too that he is at peace, and his fate rounded—and nothing for him now but folded hands and quiet sleep. Why, look at him now, Gudrid. Even now he smiles quietly, as who should say, I have done with it all. Look at him, and have no more fear of so gentle a thing."

Gudrid turned her haunted eyes towards the dead man. It was true. Thorstan smiled to himself wisely. And now she could see that his eyes were shut. She slipped off Thorstan Black's knee and knelt beside the bed. She looked at her dead lover, and without remembering her fear or thinking what she did, she put his hair off his forehead and tidied it. Then she leaned over him, looking tenderly down at him, and stooped and put her lips to his forehead.

Thorstan Black left her, and returned presently with candles and a cross which he had made. So they laid out Thorstan Ericsson, and Thorstan Black watched him all the rest of the night.



XXII

She stayed out the long and bitter winter alone in the house with Thorstan Black. No man could have been kinder to her than he was. She felt with him the happy relation which there is between a father and his married child, when you have the equality which comes of experiences shared and have not lost the old sense of degrees—but that lingers still like a scent which recalls times past.

He was as good as his word, when the spring came. The bodies of all the crew were redeemed from the snow and put aboard ship; the settlement at Lucefrith was broken up. He gave the survivors their freedom, and free passage to Ericsfrith; for he himself intended to settle there when he had restored Gudrid to Brattalithe. So they set sail, and made a good passage, and came into the frith on a day of fresh southerly wind and strong sunshine. Gudrid, standing on the afterdeck, looked at the little town and the green fields about it, at the snow-peaks whose shapes she knew well, whereunder, as she felt, her life had been passed; and then she saw old Eric in his red cloak being helped into his boat, and Freydis, bareheaded, with her yellow hair flying in the wind, and her strong arms folded over her chest—and felt the comfort of home growing about her, and the dew of happy tears in her eyes.

Eric's eyes looked anxiously up at her. "Is all well, daughter?" he called out in a brave voice—but she could only answer with her own wet eyes. He was hauled on ship-board, and soon had her in his arms. Her hidden voice and shaking shoulders told him the rest. "There then, my sweetheart, it is done. Yet cry your fill. I have a fine son left—and you into the bargain. Come home now, and leave me no more." So said old Eric Red, a man not easily downed by fate. He made Thorstan Black free of Brattalithe for as long as he would, and promised him the best land that he had. So they all went ashore, and Freydis hailed Gudrid and made much of her. Freydis was not changed at all. She was very fond of Gudrid, and for her sake put up with her father and mother who, without Gudrid, would have fretted her to a rag. Leif came in that evening and embraced Gudrid like a sister. He heard her dreadful story and shook his head over his brother's fate. "Thorstan was born to misfortune," he said. "He had the second sight, and there is no worse gift for a man than that. Brave as he was, that foreknowledge always baulked his effort. But he was a fine man. You have had the best of us, Gudrid."

"I love you all so much," she said, "that I must have been happy with any one of you, since he would have made me free of the others. I would not have my Thorstan back again. He told me that he was at rest—and how can you look for rest in this life?"

She went to see Theodhild in her hermitage. To her only she told Thorstan's prediction, that she should be married yet again, and outlive her husband, and then find the life that she loved the best. Theodhild nodded her head. "That was a true saying of my son's. You will find the only rest there can be in this life." Gudrid asked her more, but she would not tell her. "I know, I see," said Theodhild, "but God will reveal it to you when the time comes."

Gudrid, who had left Ericshaven still a girl in her bloom, had come back to it a woman, made so by pity and terror. Her beauty was now ripe, and her mind in accord with it. They held her at Brattalithe for the fairest and wisest of women. She was rich, too, for she had her father's and Thore's estates, as well as her share of Eric's wealth which had been Thorstan's. She sold her father's house and land to Thorstan Black, who settled down there, and came to great honour in Ericshaven, as he deserved to do.



XXIII

The spring and summer of that year passed quietly enough at Brattalithe, but after harvest a fine ship from Norway came into the haven and the owner came ashore. Eric Red, Lief and Gudrid rode down to town to meet him and hear the news. He soon explained himself, for he had a copious flow of speech. He treated Gudrid with great deference, thinking her the lady of the land, and when it was explained to him that she was nobody's wife, but a widow, he smiled, saying, "So much the better," and continued to treat her as before. He was a large man, broad-faced and broad-shouldered, with light-blue eyes, and much fun in them. He looked at you when he spoke as if he wished to make you laugh, but hardly hoped it.

His friends called him Karlsefne, which means "a proper man," and his real name was Thorfinn Thordsson. "Thord of Head was my father," he told Gudrid, "and was called Horsehead, not without reason, for I will tell you that no man born could be more like a horse to look at than my father was. He was the son of Snorre who was a Viking in Earl Hakon's day; and that Snorre was the son of Thord, the first of Head." It seemed that he was well-to-do, and that he had on board his vessel, besides a crew of forty hands, a notable cargo of goods. He offered Gudrid what she pleased to take of it. "I do that," he told her, "to win your good will, for I see very well that you rule the roost here—and rightly enough. I have never been to Greenland before, and tell you fairly that I never knew there was the like of yourself to be found here. If I had known that I should have been here long ago—and then, who knows? Maybe you would not be a widow this day." He said it as if in joke, but yet he meant it. He was greatly taken with her beauty.

Eric offered him winter quarters at Brattalithe and he accepted it gladly. His goods were landed, and stood in Eric's warehouse, his ship was laid up for the winter, his men boarded in Ericshaven. As for himself, he was very soon at home in Brattalithe, and everybody liked him well. He was a good poet, and sang his own songs; he told tales, he made jokes—but was always good-tempered.

Towards Christmas Eric Red, who was now very much aged and apt to worry himself over trifles, became sad and depressed. They thought that he was grieving for the two sons he had lost, but he would not talk to any of them of his troubles. Karlsefne asked Gudrid what was the matter with his host. He always talked to her when he had a chance.

She told him what she thought: "He is an old man now, and cannot help remembering his two sons."

"That is not like an Icelander," said Karlsefne. "You yourself, lady, show the spirit of our people better. You don't fret yourself vainly. You were wedded to a good man. You were happy in him; he died. Well, you have had what you have had, and if there is to be no more, you will wait your turn. Is it not so?"

"It may be," Gudrid said. "I have learned not to build too high, by falling so far. And I think my Thorstan is at rest. He would not be if he were here now."

"Very likely not," said Karlsefne, "if he was of a jealous turn. Moreover he was a poet, one who can always see in his mind a state much better than that he lives in. That's no way to be happy. But I will talk to Eric Red. He is friendly to me."

And so he did. "What is it, host, which makes you so heavy? Your friends say you brood over the past, but I tell them that is not likely."

"No, no," said Eric, "that's not the way of it at all. The present is bad enough."

"You are treating me nobly," said Karlsefne. "I should be a churl if I did not tell you so. What else do you need?"

Then Eric said that he was aware how his house was diminished by misfortune. "I had a wife, but she has cut herself adrift; I have a daughter, but she has turned sour to me. Two of my sons are dead, look you. Now the time was when with a great houseful I could give a feast with the best. A man is best judged by his children. If they are free and high-hearted, he is judged a good man. But now I must receive you with broken rites, and it hurts me to the heart that you shall sail away in the spring of the year, and say to your friends: 'Old Eric is down in the world. A sadder Yule than that have I never spent.' I do what I can, but that is heavy on my mind."

"Nay, nay, friend," said Karlsefne, "that will never be the way of it. I am better off than I hoped for—you are treating me like an earl. Now if we are to do better and all be kings together, remember that I have a well-found ship out yonder, with stores of corn and meal, and malt for brewing; mead also, and smoked salmon are on board—whereof you shall make as free as you will, and provide such a feast as Greenland knows nothing of yet. But what a man you are to be fretted by such a thing as that!"

Eric said that he had lived in a great way all his life, and had not been used to stint his friends of hospitality. He thanked Karlsefne heartily, shook hands with him, and said, "Ask of me what you will, friend, and it shall be agreed to."

Karlsefne laughed. "Maybe I shall ask a great thing of you before I go to sea." He had made up his mind that he would have Gudrid from him if he could get her, but did not wish to precipitate matters and risk a refusal. "That fair woman has a delicate mind," he thought, "and is very religious. It will be well to make myself her friend before I offer to be her sweetheart."

The talk at the feast turned again to Wineland, and Leif Ericsson was eloquent about the sweetness of the air, the fertility of the soil, and the open winter weather which he had found there. Then Karlsefne asked Gudrid whether she would not like to go thither.

She shook her head. "Not now. Thorstan and I were on our way when the fate turned against us, and he died. It has brought us no luck yet. Two of Eric's sons have died for the sake of Wineland. But you," she said, looking in his face, "you will go. I think you are a lucky man. You have luck in your face."

"Eh," said Karlsefne, "I have thought myself pretty lucky so far; but now I am not so sure. I have been building on my luck since I came here. But I may get a fall."

She laughed. "You are bold, I can see, but yet you are careful too. You do not build except on good footings."

"If you think me bold, lady," he said, with raised brows, "you will think me too bold perhaps presently. Remember, when that time comes, that if a man sees his profit within his reach he is a fool if he don't stretch out his hand."

"He may be a fool," she said, "to think it so near." Her colour was high, her eyes shone. His own, narrowed and intense, held them.

"Do you know the name I give you in my private mind?" he asked her. She shook her head.

"I call you Constant-Kind."

"And why do you call me that? Do you think I am kind to every one?"

"I think that you have been," said Karlsefne, "and I believe that you would not willingly deny a service if you could do it."

"And what service do you ask of me?"

"Ah, I ask none as yet. But maybe I shall."

Certainly she knew what he wanted, and wondered whether he was the man predicted. Thorberg had prophesied an ugly man for one of her husbands. That could not be said of Karlsefne. He was not handsome by any means, but so full of fun that he would pass anywhere as well-looking. She had no love to give him; all that was buried with her doomed Thorstan; and yet she could see life to be a very pleasant thing with him beside her—a warm, sheltered, pleasant thing. She was rather of Freydis's opinion after an experience of two kinds of life, that a woman was happier in being loved than in loving. She had not thought so when Thorstan was her lover. Then her triumph and pride had been that she could give him inexhaustibly what he needed—but look how that had ended. She said to herself: "He will be kind to me, because he is kind by nature. I believe that is my nature too. Therefore I can give him what he wants, and find some comfort in it. I have known the highest, and that is enough for me. That will never come again. Let the other suffice, if it will satisfy him." With that she put the thought away in her heart, wishing to leave it there; yet she could not resist taking it out and looking at it now and again. It was still good to be loved, good to be desired, good to be the centre of a man's thoughts. Every time she looked at her hoard it seemed a little brighter.

Karlsefne took his time. It was close upon the spring when he asked her if she would have him. She met his looks calmly, and told him what she felt about it. "I am not very old yet," she said, "but I have had a great deal of experience. I have been married twice, and loved deeply once. That can never be again."

"Nay," he said, "I don't ask impossibilities of you. But I have love enough in my heart for the two of us. Do you trust me?"

"Yes," she said, "I do trust you."

"Why then," said Karlsefne, "will you give yourself to me?"

She thought. "You shall ask Eric if he is willing," she told him. "He loves me, and he is an old man. Since my father died he has been father to me. I have had nothing but love and kindness from him and his family. I will not leave him now, if he needs me—for he knows, and I know, that if I leave him again it will be for the last time."

Karlsefne drew near her and put his arm about her. "I will ask him—but if he agrees you will come?" She smiled and nodded her head. Then, "Will you kiss me?" he said.

"Is that in the bargain?"

He drew her close to him. "Oh, Gudrid, kiss me once. I'm on fire." So then she kissed him.

Eric looked rather chap-fallen. "You are asking me for the jewel on my breast," he said.

"That I know very well," said Karlsefne.

"She is not only a fair woman, but a wise and good woman. She is sweet-mannered, and sweet-natured. The soothsay about her is that she will rear a great race."

"She shall, if I have anything to do with it," said Karlsefne. "You know the name they give me."

"I think highly of you," Eric allowed. "Everything speaks well for you. But I will tell you this. If my son Leif were not entangled with a foreign woman, an earl's daughter by whom he has got a son, it would have been my joy to see him take Gudrid and rear that great race to my name. But it may well be that she will fulfil her destiny with you rather."

"I believe she will," said Karlsefne. "The moment I clapped eyes on her I said to myself, 'There stands before you the sweetest woman that lightens the world.' And I have had no other thought or desire since which has not drawn me to her. If you will give her to me you will do me the utmost service one man can do another. And she will come to me if you say the word. I tell you that."

Eric said it should be as he wished. The last feast that fine old man was ever to see was that which he made for Gudrid's wedding with Karlsefne.



XXIV

Directly he was married Karlsefne began to talk about the Wineland voyage, first to Gudrid, and then to the company at Brattalithe, where he still lived. Gudrid was eager to go. She had always wanted that; and when she found herself with child, that did not deter her—nor her husband either. "I am a prosperous man," he said, "and bring good fortune with me. If you are not afraid, why should I be? Let us trust to our luck, my Gudrid." She believed in him more than in any man she had had to do with yet. He seemed to her a more fortunate man than Leif himself. So it was agreed upon.

Whether it was the lucky star of Karlsefne or not which prevailed, there was more stir about this expedition than had been about any. There were to be two ships fitted for it. First of all, Freydis said that she intended for it—she and her husband Thorhall; then another Thorhall, him they called the Huntsman, offered himself—a tall, oldish, glum fellow, liked by nobody and trusted by few, but a man of great strength and courage, too able to be refused. Then came up Biorn from Heriolfsness offering himself and his ship. Altogether there were some hundred and forty people to be carried, of whom five only were women, and goods in proportion.

Karlsefne, saying that you never knew how things would go, carried livestock in the holds of both ships. He took ten head of cows, a score sheep, some goats, and a bull. He took ducks and hens, a dog or two, and some ponies for the women to ride. But he had some stranger stock yet, human stock, which Leif gave him. They were two Scots, a male and a female, whom he had had from Thorgunna's father in Orkney and had kept ever since, hoping they would breed; but they did not. They were wild, small, shaggy creatures, about the same height—the man was called Hake, the woman Haekia. They were said to be incredibly swift in running, and were certainly hardier than most human kinds. Summer and winter they wore but one garment, a long, sleeveless garment with a hood, which fell straight from the shoulders, and, being slit from the thighs, was fastened between their legs. It had no sleeves; their arms were bare to the shoulder. They called it in their own tongue gioball. You never saw one of these creatures without the other; they were inseparable—and yet they were never seen to speak to each other, or to use any kind of endearments. They would not eat if any one were looking at them, nor sleep except they were alone and in the dark. Gudrid tried to make friends with them. They sat still, looking down or beyond her; but never would meet her eyes.

So much for the company which, when all preparations were done, sailed at mid-summer from Ericshaven, with Karlsefne as leader. Gudrid shed tears at the parting with old Eric Red, knowing that she would never see him again. "Farewell, sweetheart," he said to her; "you leave this world the better for having had you in it." He rode his old white pony down to the quay, and sat there watching the ships go out with the tide. His red cloak was the last she saw of the haven.

The voyage was smooth, with a fair wind all the way. First they went round to the West Settlement, and Gudrid looked out for Lucefrith where her darkest days had also been her brightest. She could not have told it for herself, but Karlsefne showed it to her. The black cliffs now looked warm grey in the sun, the sea was green, sparkling with light; the creek was smooth flowing water lipping on silver sands. Karlsefne told her that nobody lived there now. "Mariners run in there in summer-time for water, and see the green flats and the mountains in a haze of heat. They say: 'This is a sweet and wholesome country. We will dwell here and work and be happy.' Then the winter comes upon them suddenly, white fogs, madness and death. You, my child, know as much of that as you ought." She shivered, and leaned her head against him. There was great store of comfort in Karlsefne; she esteemed him, she trusted him, she believed in his star; but Thorstan Ericsson had given her wings, and she had shed them into his grave. She would never fly again among the stars.

They took in water from the West Settlement and then sailed to the Bear Islands—small rocky, flat lands lying low in the great western surges. Thence with a north wind they came into the ocean and were two days without sight of land. But on the morning of the third day they saw land ahead, and came within reach of it, and cast anchor in a broad bay. This was the country to which Leif had been before and called Helloland.[1] Karlsefne had boats manned from either ship, and stayed a couple of days to explore. It was a litter of rock, very barren, and full of white foxes. They found plenty of fish, and laid in a good store; but that was no country in which to settle, so they left it, going south before a good northerly wind.

In two days' sailing they made out a land ahead, full of trees and dense undergrowth. That was certainly Leif's Markland. South-east of it, at no great distance, there was a large island. They saw a great bear prowling the shore, and gave his dwelling-place the name of Bear Island, out of compliment to him. Karlsefne did not stay to explore it.

They ran on still before the wind for another two days or three, saw land again, and made for it. This was a headland running far out into the sea, which they made and passed, then ran in close to the shore and coasted for some days without finding any haven. This was a very long strand, great stretches of white sand with nothing to break them up. Behind the dunes they could see the tops of great trees. It was judged that the whole country was low-lying and probably swampy. Ferly Strands was the name they gave to this interminable shore.

But yet it was not interminable, for it broke up at last into bays and creeks, with many islands which had beautiful trees on them, and rich herbage down to the sea-line, Karlsefne said that they would run in hereabouts and live ashore for a while. "We will send out our runners, to see what they can find out for us," he said. That was agreed upon.



[1] Believed to be Newfoundland.



XXV

They landed on the mainland on hard white sand, but beyond that there was turf, with patches of tall waving grass, then a belt of timber, and beyond them, as they soon made out, an infinite rolling country of woods and clothed hills, with lakes here and there. Gudrid was enchanted: the nimble and sweet air, trees taller than she had ever dreamed of, space, emptiness, silence: she stood with a finger to her lip, looking up and all about, and sometimes at her companions to see if they were not under the same spell as she. But the men were too busy choosing a good place for the camp, and Freydis was with them.

Karlsefne had no mind to be surprised by savages, so sent out men to cut wood. He intended to have a stockade round his camp in which at least the women could be defended. There were but five of them, it is true, but they were all married, and therefore precious. The men who were not married always hoped that they might be. Who could say what might be the lot of any adventurer? Let a married man die by all means—but not a wife. Tents were put up, a double stockade fixed round them; hammocks were slung. Very soon they had a fire going, and a pot over it. Gudrid, Freydis and the rest of the women saw to that. Karlsefne arranged for the watch.

The ships were left well manned, and a company from the landing-party put into each boat, and each boat at a sufficient distance from its companion. These crews were to be relieved by watches. Sentries also were posted about the stockade. They had found no signs of inhabitancy; but Karlsefne was very careful.

They had their meal in the open under a clear sky. The stars came out—larger, wetter stars, Gudrid said, than they had at home. Far off in the forest they heard beasts bellowing, and supposed them wild cattle. The bull from Karlsefne's ship thundered his answer to the challenge. They heard wolves at dusk, a chorus of them, and the barking of wild dogs. No sound of men came near them, nor were they disturbed in the night. In the morning Karlsefne sent a boat over to fetch the Scots.

They came, and fixed Karlsefne with intent blue eyes while he told them what they had to do. He showed them the sun, and with a sweep of his arm drew his course into the south. He made them understand that they were to run due south for three days, and then work back to the camp with whatever they could carry out of the country. They followed every sign he made, they looked at each other and spoke together, fierce, curt speeches. It was certain that they knew what they had to do, for without hesitation they began to do it at once. They looked at each other, then set off at a trot towards the creek below the stockade. Arrived there, they stripped off their single garments, folded them and put them on their heads; they swam the creek, which was a good half-mile broad, clothed themselves on the further shore, and then began to run towards the south. They ran like deer, incredibly fast, with high and short bounds, as if exulting in their legs, and very soon they were out of sight.

They waited for them three full days which were spent by the men in hunting and fishing. Game of all kinds was plenty. Karlsefne had a pony out and put Gudrid upon it. He took her a long way into the forest and made her happy. She said to him: "You are kinder to me than I deserve, my friend." His answer was: "It is not hard to be kind to you, for you answer to the touch like an instrument of music. I win melody from you that way which enchants me." She said: "Believe me to be grateful. Believe that I give you in return all I have." "My dear love," said Karlsefne, "I know that. You have given me of your life. I never forget it." And then it was her turn to say: "It is not hard to give you that." So they were a happy couple.

Freydis too was expecting a child, but took it hardly, as she did everything else.

At sunset on the third day from starting the Scots came back. Their faces and arms were glistening with sweat, but they breathed easily and were not at all distressed. One of them carried a fine bunch of grapes, the other some ears of corn. It was wheat, but redder than what they had in any country which Karlsefne or his friends knew about. They collected from the Scot that it was wild wheat, and that the country where it grew was fruitful and good.

There was a debate about this expedition, the first of many. Karlsefne was sure that the scouts had found Wineland where Leif had once been; Thorhall the Huntsman thought not. Karlsefne was for going up the creek as far as a ship could go, and there to land their stock and spend the winter. Biorn, who was afraid of attack by natives, desired to keep to the open sea. It was compromised finally. Biorn's ship would remain in her present anchorage, but Thorhall would go up with Karlsefne. Thorhall was a man ill to deal with in any event. Neither company wanted him, but Karlsefne's company wanted him least—therefore he chose for that. Most of the stock and all the women but one were of that ship. Gudrid's child should be born about Christmas time. Her husband was keen to have a good harbourage for her, and all settled down before the time came.

So for a while the two ships parted company, and Karlsefne, having all his party safe aboard, hauled up his anchor, spread his canvas, and sailed into the creek on a flowing tide.



XXVI

Right in the mouth of the creek there was an island which they named Streamsey, because the currents about it were so many and so strong. It fairly swarmed with sea-birds, which hung over it like a cloud. It was very difficult to find a passage, but they managed that with hard rowing, and once past it, found plenty of water, and a noble country on either hand. They went up three days sailing, and there, where the woods fell more sparse and there seemed plenty of herbage for cattle, Karlsefne decided to make his winter quarters. The stock was disembarked; the stores, and the tents. They built themselves a stockade all round the camp, and hoped to have a good winter of it.

The winter came late, but was severe. There was great scarcity of pasture, the fishing fell off; they had to kill some of their cattle, but dared not depend upon that. There was trouble with some of the crew, begun by Thorhall the Huntsman, who began to preach heathenry to them, getting a few at a time in the woods and talking, and singing old songs. Karlsefne was full of business all this time, with parties out exploring the country, and so did not see what was going on in and about the camp. Then, one day, news was brought him that a whale had come into the creek and was stranded in shoal water. The men, short as they were of food, were eager to get at it. Karlsefne went out to see it—a huge beast, greyish and arched in the back. He did not know what sort of a whale it was, but the men were set upon it, and Thorhall vehement. "Get at it, get at it—what do you fear, man? I tell you it is a godsend," he said. He had been very queer in his ways for a week or more, and one day had been found upon a cliff overhanging the water, with his arms stiffly out, his chin towards the sky. His eyes had been shut, his mouth open, his nostrils splayed out. He had writhed and twisted about, talking in a strange tongue. They were some time bringing him to his senses, and had no thanks from him for doing it; but they had fetched him home and put him to bed. He had lain there with his head covered up until the news of the whale was brought in. That caused him to leap out of his bed. He was the most eager of them all to cut up the great beast.

Karlsefne gave the word, and they fell on the whale with hatchets and knives. Soon the pots were bubbling and the steam filling their nostrils. Karlsefne would not eat of it, and would not allow Gudrid any; but the rest made a feast. It was rich and savoury, very fat; this was the hour of Thorhall's triumph. He came and stood by the messes as they ate, with gleaming eyes. "Does this not prove to you that Redbeard was your friend? What had your white Christ brought you but death and misery? Now by my incantations I have brought Thor round to look on you with favour again. This is my doing, and your leader here thought I was mad and tied me down to a bed."

Some men stopped eating as they heard him; some turned away and would not begin to eat. Karlsefne, when he knew what was going on, came down like a flame of fire. "What is this he says? That this is his doing—with prayers to Thor? And you of the new faith and the true faith, eat of what he offers to his idols! Cast that beastliness to the sea, and be done with it." Some of the eaters were ill already, and many were to be so; but Karlsefne was obeyed. The cauldrons were emptied over the cliffs, and the birds gathered from all quarters. They went hungry, and suffered much that winter; but by leading the cattle far into the woods they managed to keep them alive, and Gudrid did not fail of milk. Her boy was born on Christmas Eve, and christened by Karlsefne himself. He named him Snorre after his own grandfather.

After that things went better. There came rain which broke up the ice and thinned off all the snow. They began to get fish again; mild westerly winds enabled them to go farther afield. Biorn came up from his anchorage to see Karlsefne, and debates about the future were renewed.

Karlsefne was now bent on going south, and Biorn, with Thorhall, equally set upon the north. It was clear that the two ships must part company; and so they did as soon as the spring weather was come. The tale has little more to say of Biorn and his party. It is supposed that they fell in with bad weather in the north, and that they were driven over the ocean. Thorhall was heard of long afterwards in Ireland, as having fought and died there.



XXVII

But Karlsefne, the prosperous man, did well. He sailed along the land in and out of beautiful wooded islands until he came to the mouth of a great river.[1] He entered that on the flood and sailed up for many days. It was a broad and noble river which came, as they discovered, out of a lake. Here was such a land as they had never seen before, so beautiful, so fruitful that they had no desire to seek further. They called this land Hope, for here was the utmost they had dreamed of. There were broad acres of wheat growing here, self-sown; upon the slopes of the hills wild vines were thick and full of bud; the streams were full of fish; there were deer in the woods, and everywhere in the early mornings the piping of birds. Karlsefne said: "My Gudrid, we have found Wineland the Good. Here we will stay awhile." She was happy to be in so good a place.

They made their camp on the shores of the lake, and built themselves houses of timber, with a stockade and trench about the whole Settlement. There was abundance of food for the animals, abundance for themselves, with promise of a harvest both of corn and of wine. No signs of human occupation had been found as yet. They began to think that they had Wineland to themselves, and used to go far afield, even to being out for days together and sleeping in the open. But Karlsefne kept his eyes wide for some possible attack, and was proved to be right.

Early one morning when he went down to the lake shore he saw boats upon the quiet water. He counted nine of them. They kept close company and came on steadily. He looked beyond them but could see no more. "With no more than nine of them, this won't be a long affair," he thought to himself; but he went back to the Settlement and called out his men. Then he went into his own house and called Gudrid to come. "Are you minded to see some of the Winelanders, my Gudrid? Bring your baby with you, and I will show them to you. I don't think they mean us any harm." Gudrid went with him without question.

By this time the settlers had lined the shore, and the hide-boats had drawn up within bowshot and were making signals. A man stood up in each boat and waved a pole over his head. He swept it round in circles, and moved it from east to west, following the course of the sun. "What do they want with us?" says Karlsefne. "Not war, I think. Now who will come out to meet them with me? We will show them a white shield, but there shall be weapons at the bottom of the boat." He soon had a crew, and was soon afloat.

The native boats scattered out in a half-moon as the adventurers came on. Karlsefne saw that he was being hemmed in, but having the notion fixed in his head that no harm was intended, he did not give orders to cease rowing, and stood up in the bows himself with his white shield displayed. When he was within speaking distance he bade his men rest on their oars. By and by, as he had expected, curiosity did his work for him. The hide-boats came in and in, each of them holding five or six men. In one at least he saw a woman with a baby. "If they bring their babies out to see us, it's no more than I have done," Karlsefne said. "They mean peace, and they shall have it."

He invited them forward with open arms, and all signs of friendliness, and presently they were all crowded about. Small people they were, very dark brown, very ugly, with flat faces, coarse black hair twisted and tortured into peaks and knots. They had broad fat cheeks and enormous eyes. Their talk was like the chattering of birds.

Karlsefne invited them to shore, and very cautiously their boats followed his. They landed and were induced to mingle with the large company they found there. Gudrid and her baby were the great attractions. The first man who saw her suckling it stared and jumped about. He called shrilly to his friends behind, and a body of them came to join him. They pushed forward the brown woman with her child. Gudrid, not at all put out or frightened, held out her hand. The woman stared hard at her white breast, then opened her gown and showed her own. She gave her baby suck and grinned community of nature in Gudrid's face. Gudrid, with one of those happy motions of hers, looked round to see if Karlsefne was by, and finding that he was, put up her hand into his.

That shot told. There was much commotion among the brown people, much bickering and stirring; and presently they pushed one of their own men forward, and joined his hand with that of the mother. Joyful murmurings arose. Everybody understood. Now it was Freydis's turn. She stood disdainfully apart, with folded arms, but her colouring and shape betrayed her. Here was plainly to be another mother soon, as they did not fail to tell each other. Then nothing would do but her husband must be found for her. His friends dragged him out and put him beside her, no more willing to go than she was to have him. "Handfast her, you dog," said Karlsefne. "How else will they believe you?" So that was done. Freydis fumed and burned, as handsome and furious a young woman as you could have hoped to see. All went so well that Karlsefne was moved to hospitality, sending a man off for milk and fish. They crowded about for their share, and growing bold by degrees handled the women's gowns, the men's weapons, and were for spying into the stockade. The bull, who was feeding in there, snorted and puffed up the dust; presently, wagging his head, he came towards them and sent them flying back. Karlsefne, by signs, tried to make them understand that he was ready to barter if they were. He touched the fur with which they were all clad, and pointed to the milk bowls. When they saw what he would be at, they in turn fingered the weapons which every man had about him. Clearly they had not the art of forging steel. It was long before they would leave the shore, and when they did go it was with one consent, without any words passing. Quite suddenly they turned about and ran down to the shore, launched their canoes and were out in the water like a horde of rats. They rowed down the lake, as if towards the sea.

Nothing more was seen of them for some time, but presently they began to come in numbers, always very friendly and willing to barter. They brought furs with them—fox and marten, beaver, as well as coarser kinds, bear and wolf and elk. Karlsefne would exchange no weapons; but milk he offered, and that they drank greedily and on the spot, and cloth too, of which he had a good store. Red cloth took their fancy most; they seemed as if they must have it, it was a kind of lust. The breadths he could spare them grew narrower and narrower; they pushed out their furs for it with no consideration of what they got in exchange. At last it became a kind of madness, and Karlsefne said it had better stop. "They take it like strong water; one of these days they will be killing men for it." It was a prophecy on his part—for they came in greater and greater numbers, and when there was no more red cloth for them, they howled and chattered and looked dangerous. Karlsefne and the men with him faced them with the best heart they had, but he ordered a retreat to the stockade, and when he was pretty near the entrance bade a man go in and bring out the bull. That answered. The great beast stood in the doorway pawing the ground and breathing hard. When he saw what was in front of him, down went his head, and he charged. The savages scattered all ways and saved themselves. In a few moments the lake was black with canoes; it was, the tale says, as though the water was covered with floating charcoal. Karlsefne did not like the look of things at all. He doubled the watch on the ship and strengthened the stockade; but did not wish to frighten Gudrid, who was so happy with her child, and beginning, as he could see, to love himself. He knew that she loved him, because at all sorts of times he found out that she had been looking at him while he moved about, busy over something or other. He taxed her with it one day. "I think that you love me, Gudrid."

She put her head on one side. "What makes you think so?" He told her; so then she owned to it, and he wished to know why. She said that she could not tell, but in such a way that he saw that she could, and wished him to know. So then he pressed her. "Tell me, Gudrid, why you love me." She touched her child's head. "Because you are strong, and good, and brave. And because you gave me this. A woman must love her child's father."

"Ask Freydis that," said Karlsefne; and she answered him; "Freydis loves more than she chooses to say. When Freydis has a child, you will see that she will love it."

"But not her man on that account," he said. "It is only a heart like yours, my Gudrid, that can love because it loves. For I see very well that you love me because you love this boy, and did not until he came."

She looked gently at him, half excusing herself. "I liked you well, and was grateful."

"Ah, yes, maybe," he said, "but that was not how you loved Thorstan Ericsson."

She said: "I was younger then, and I loved him so much because our time was short. But I love you better than I loved Thorstan, because of the peace you have put in my heart."



[1] The Hudson River.



XXVIII

There was no further visitation from the savages for some time. The leaves fell, the nights grew short, and there came a spell of cold; but if this were winter it was one which no Greenlander could fear. The sky was blue, the sun warm on the skin; there was no snow, and the frost a mere white rime which melted in an hour. Their cattle never failed of feed, and as for themselves, they had so well harvested the wild wheat and the grapes that they had nothing to fear.

The winter, to call it so, was well advanced before the savages came; but one day they were reported in large numbers on the lake, and Karlsefne gave orders how they were to be received. None were to be let inside the stockade; all the men were to have their weapons; such stuff as they had for barter was to be held up from within the defences and thrown over in exchange. He himself with a few of the best men should stand in the entry.

Now while they were waiting for the savages and could still see some of them out on the water, while others were disembarking on the shore, Gudrid was sitting just inside the door of her house with her child asleep on her lap. She sat full in the sun, and was quiet and happy, as she generally was. Presently there passed a dark shadow across the open door. Gudrid looked up quickly. A woman stood there inside the pillars of the porch and looked fixedly at her. She was dressed in black, drawn very tightly across her; she was about Gudrid's own height, and had a ribbon over her hair—which was of a light-brown colour, and not coarse as most of the savages' was. She was a pale, grave woman, and had the biggest eyes Gudrid had ever seen. They were wide open, grey, and had a world of sorrow in them. Gudrid was not at all afraid, because she thought the woman looked too sad to be wicked or ill-disposed; besides, she did not believe that any one could be ill-disposed to her. So she smiled up in her face and waited for her to speak.

When she did speak it did not seem at all remarkable that she should be perfectly understood. "What is your name?" she said plainly.

Gudrid answered her simply, "My name is Gudrid. And what is your name?"

"My name is Gudrid," said the woman, and the real Gudrid laughed softly.

"Come then, Gudrid, and sit by me," she said, and held out her hand. The woman stared mournfully at her, and seemed to have trouble in speaking again. She turned her head about as if her throat hurt her. Then she said, "No, I cannot—I may not." Again she struggled, as she said, "Go from here. Do not stay." There came a loud cry from the stockade, and Gudrid started and got up. She went to the door and looked out. The woman was not there.

By that time she was very much frightened, and saw them fighting at the entry. The outside of the fence seemed thick with savages, and presently some of them rushed the opening and came in. Freydis was at the door of her hut and saw them. Her face flamed. "Have at you, devils!" she shouted, and snatched up a double-handed sword. With this she went stumbling towards them, being so far on with child that she could scarcely walk. She had the long sword in one hand, but needed two to swing it. Her shift incommoded her, so she ripped it open and let it fall behind her. Then bare-breasted she whirled the great sword over her head and began to lay about her like a man. Her yellow hair flew out behind her like a flag; her face was flame-red, and her eyes glittering like ice. The savages fell back before her, and at the entry were caught by Karlsefne, returning from chasing a horde of them, and all killed. The others had gone or been driven off. Two of the Icelanders had been killed, and many were hurt.

After this they had a council what had best be done. Gudrid told her story. Nobody had seen the woman but she, and nobody could make anything of it. Freydis thought that she was a ghost, but Gudrid was sure of her reality. "I think myself," she said, "that she was a woman of our own people either stolen by the savages from a ship, or cast ashore from a wreck, or lost by some adventurers of a former day. I never saw any woman with so much horror in her face. I would do a great deal if I could find her again. But the fighting began, and she went away without my seeing her go."

"I should like more to know how she came in," said Karlsefne, "than how she went out. But whether she lives or is dead she had a warning which we had best take heed of. I am for going home myself."

Freydis said that she should stay. She liked the country and was minded to live in it. Others were of her mind. About a hundred chose to settle there with her and her husband.

There arose then the question of a ship, and Karlsefne said that he could not go home and leave them there with no means of escape. He said that he would go out in his own ship and look for the others, but Freydis would not have that. "Leave us here; we shall do well enough," she said. "As for the ship that has Thorhall the Huntsman in it, I would far sooner have none than his, with him in it."

"We have tools enough here, and timber enough," Karlsefne said. "We will build you a ship as soon as look at you." So it was settled they were to build a new ship before they left. That night Freydis's child was born. It was a girl, and she called it Walgerd. That had been the name of Thorstan's daughter, who had not lived. Gudrid wondered why she chose that name. She could never understand Freydis—nobody could; yet she had been right about her in one thing. Freydis loved the child more than life itself. She was so jealous of it that she was uneasy when any one came in to see her, and used to lean right over it and hide it out of sight. Her yellow hair fell over her face, her eyes showed fire. She was like a wild beast guarding her young. As for Thorhall, her husband, she warned him out of the house, and he never dared put his head inside the door. She allowed Gudrid the entry, sulkily, it is true; but that was only her way of doing things. She was glad of her in her heart. "I am even with you now," she said, with her face to the wall.

"I am glad of it," Gudrid said. "I always wished you happy."

"I have never been so, since I became a woman," said Freydis, and Gudrid did not know what she meant.

"I was happy enough," she went on, in a grumbling, even voice—as even it was as the constant running of water in a drain—"when I was a child, running and sporting with the boys. I loved all the things that they loved—I could swim as well as any, and ride, and fight with stones. But when they began to find me a girl, and to hold me and try to be alone with me, I had horror. They made me ashamed. And worse was to come—and I almost killed a young man for it—and after that I hated men, as I do still."

"They mean no harm," said Gudrid. "They do after their kind."

"But their kind is not mine. To be held in a man's arm is horrible to me."

"It is good to me, sometimes," said Gudrid.

"But when I saw you with Thorstan's child about to be born—and saw how rich and sedate you walked the ways, and how peace sat upon your forehead like a wreath, then I grudged you." Freydis turned round in the bed and showed her burning face. "And I said, 'This woman has a secret joy, and for all she is so quiet and still she is stronger than I.' And when the child died I was glad. I said, 'Now we are level again, but I will be better than you, for I will have a child which shall live and be strong like me.' But you have had yours first, and it is a boy. So you are better than me still." Then her eyes filled with hot tears, which made her eyelids blink.

"Oh, Freydis," Gudrid said, "you don't grudge me my boy?"

"No, no, it is not that. It is that I am ashamed. You are good, and I am very bad. I hate myself now."

Gudrid kissed her.

"Tell me, Freydis, now," she said, "why did you call your girl Walgerd?"

Freydis did not want to answer, but presently she said: "I should have called her Gudrid if that had been lucky. But we must not use the names of living persons for the new-born, so I called her Walgerd, because yours had been called so. I went as near to you as I could."

It seemed to hurt Freydis to talk about it, but Gudrid kissed her again, and went away feeling happy about her. "It is good to be loved, even by Freydis," she said to Karlsefne, whose answer was, "Who could help loving you?"



XXIX

But before the ship-building was began Freydis changed her mind, and said that she would go home with the rest. Nobody caring to stop alone out there without some chieftain over them, it came to it that all must go home in one ship. They killed what stock they could not take alive, and sailed out of the river at the beginning of summer. Gudrid's boy Snorre was just two years old, and Karlsefne was anxious to be safe at home before he had a brother or sister.

They waited about at the river's mouth for a fair wind, then set all sail and ran before it northerly along the coast. So they came again to Markland and stayed there for certain days. It was there that Karlsefne and some of the crew, on shore after game, surprised some savages in a hollow of the woods: a bearded man, two women and two children. He saw them, unperceived himself, stalked them with art, and made a dash into the midst of them. He caught the two children, but the others disappeared into the earth. He brought them home with him and gave them to Gudrid. "Can you have too many children? I don't think so." She took them gladly and brought them up. They were brown all over and naked; they had black eyes round and staring as beads, but a ring of blue all about them, as blue as that on a thrush's egg. In time she taught them her own tongue, and in time had them baptized—but that was not until she went to Iceland. When they sailed from Markland the wind still held good, and they came safely into Ericsfrith, and picked up their moorings in the haven. It was as if they had never been away.

Leif came down to welcome them, and they stayed with him the rest of the year. Eric Red was dead, and Leif not married. He had his son with him born in Orkney, but Thorgunna herself had not come, and Leif would not marry any other woman. Theodhild his mother kept house for him—it was no longer the great hospitality which old Eric had loved to maintain.

They heard of the fate of Thorhall the Huntsman lost in Ireland, and of Biorn who had sailed with him. Their ship had been driven out of her course by tempest, and had drifted into a strange sea which they called The Maggoty Sea. Here the water was full of worms, which fastened on the ship and ate the timbers, so that she became rotten under them. They had a boat with them which the worms would not touch, and cast lots which should go in her and which remain. Thorhall drew a good lot and Biorn another; half the crew got into the boat. But then, as they were casting off, a young man who had been with Biorn in Iceland and on many voyages looked over the side and said, "Biorn, do you leave me here?" Biorn said, "Why, what can I do?"

"You should keep the promise you made to me when I left my father's house to go along with you," the young man said.

Biorn looked about. "Well," he said, "what would you have?"

The young man answered, "I would have you take me in the boat."

"Would you have my place? Do you mean that?"

The young man did not answer him, but said, "Well, I am young to die."

Then Biorn said, "In with you, then. Death is a hard thing for young men." So they changed places, and Biorn saw the boat out of sight. It was wrecked on the coast of Ireland, and many of the company drowned.

Gudrid's son Biorn was born at Brattalithe and named after a brave man; and then it became a question for Karlsefne what he had better do. He had had from Gudrid a fine estate in Greenland, but he had one of his own at Rowanness in Iceland, and wanted to take her there. He told her: "I had the only good thing in Greenland when I had you; and you were not born here, and do not belong here either. But it shall be as you please."

She said at once, "Let us go home to Iceland," and as she said it her face fell and she looked sorrowfully at him.

"What is it now, sweetheart?"

"I remember," she said, "what was foretold of me when first I came to Greenland, and all of it has been fulfilled but two things. Now I am afraid again, though it was so long ago."

Karlsefne laughed. "And one was that you should end your days in Iceland?" She nodded, fearing the rest; but he went on—

"And the other was that you should outlive me?" She nodded again; but he looked at her and laughed, until she did too, but ruefully.

"Let be all that, my dear," he said. "Death is not so fearful a thing—and the longer we live the less fearful it is. But I will tell you this, my Gudrid: I should be a miserable man were you to die first. And what would these children do without you? I call that comfortable soothsay, for my part—but I am not for dying yet awhile."

He was not; for the rest of his tale is as prosperous as its beginning. He settled down in Iceland upon his own land, and did well by Gudrid and her children before his time came. As for her, it is said that when she had seen her sons out in the world, and married her daughters seemly, she turned to religion. A pilgrimage to Rome is reported, and that she became a nun. Thorberg had predicted of her that she should find the life which she loved best, and may have meant that of religion. The fact appears to be that Gudrid was a sweet nature and could be happy anywhere if she were allowed to love. And if it is not permitted always to love men, a woman can always love God.

THE END