 Chapter 34 Of the Roots of the Mountains by William Morris. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. The chieftains take counsel in the hall of the face. Then turned face of God back into the hall, and saw where Ironface sat at the dais, and with him Folkmite and Stoneface and the Elder of the Dalewardens, and Sunbeam with all. So he went soberly up to the board, and sat himself down there at, beside Stoneface, over against Folkmite, and his father, beside whom sat the Sunbeam, and Folkmite looked on him gravely as a man powerful and trustworthy, yet was his look somewhat sour. Then the alderman said, My son, I said not to thee, come back presently, because I wanted that thou would surely do so, knowing that we have much to speak of. For, whatever these thy friends may have done, or whatsoever thou hast done with them to grieve us, all that must be set aside at this present time, since the matter in hand is to save the Dale and its Folk, what sayest thou hereon? Since young as thou mayst be, thou art our war-leader, and doubtless shalt be so after the Fortmote hath been holden. Face of God answered not hastily, indeed, as he sat thinking for a minute or two, the fair spring day seemed to darken about them, or to glare into the light of flames amidst the night tide, and the joyous clamour without doors seemed to grow hoarse and fearful as the sound of wailing and shrieking. But he spake firmly and simply, in a clear voice, and said, There can be no two words concerning what we have to aim at. These dusky men, we must slay every one, though we be fewer than they be. Folkmite smiled and nodded his head, but the other sat staring down the hall or into the hangings. Then spake Folkmite, Thou were to boy me thought when I cast my spear at thee last autumn, face of God, but now hast thou grown into a man? Now tell me, what demons thou we must do to slay them all? Said face of God, once again it is clear that we must fall upon them at home, in Rosedale and Silverdale. Again Folkmite nodded, but I am face said, Needeth this? May we not ward the Dale and send many bands into the wood to fall upon them when we meet them? Yea, and so doing these our guests have already slain many, as this valiant man hath told me now. Will ye not slay so many at last, that they shall learn to fear us, and abide at home and leave us at peace? Face of God said, Me say, my father, that this is not thy read, that thou sayest this but to try me, and perchance, ye have been talking about me when I was without in the street, even now. Even if it might be that we should thus cow these felons into abiding at home, and tormenting their own thralls at their ease. Yet how, then, are our friends of the wolf, hoping to their own again? And I shall tell thee, that I have promised to this man and this woman, that I will give them no less than a man's help in this matter. Moreover, I have spoken in every house of the Dale, and to the shepherds and the woodlanders, and there is no man amongst them, but will follow me in the quarrel. Furthermore, they have heard of the thralldom that is done on men, no great way from their own houses. Yea, they have seen it, and they remember the old saw, Grief in thy neighbour's hall is grief in thy garth, and sure it is, Father, that whether thou or I gain say them, go they will to deliver the thralls of the dusky men, and leave us alone in the Dale. This is no less than sooth, said the Dalewarden. Never have men gone forth more joyously to a merrymaking, than all men of us shall went to this war. But said face of God, of one thing ye may be sure, that these men will not abide our pleasure till we cut them all off in scattered bands, nor will they sit deedless at home, nor indeed may they, for we have heard from their thralls that they look to have fresh tribes of them come to hand, to eat their meat and waste their servants, and these and they must find new abodes and new thralls, and they are now warned by the overthrows and slayings that they have had at our hands, that we are a stir, and they will not delay long, but will fall upon us with all their host, it might even be to-day or to-morrow. In all this thou sayest sooth, brother of the Dale, and to cut this matter short, I will tell you all, that yesterday we had with us a runaway from Silverdale. It is over long to tell how we fell in with her, for it was a woman, but she told us that this very moon is a new tribe coming to the Dale, six long hundreds in number, and twice as many more are looped for in two-eighths of days, and that ere this moon hath waned. That is, in twenty-four days they will wend their ways straight for Burgdale, for they know the ways there too. So I say that face of God is right in all wise, but tell me, brother, hast thou thought of how we shall come upon these men? How many men wilt thou lead into battle? said face of God. Volkmacht reddened, and said, a few, a few, maybe two-hundreds all told. Yea, said face of God, but some special gain wilt out be to us. So I deem at least, said Volkmacht, said face of God. Good is that! Now we have held our weapon show in the Dale, and we find that we together, with you, be sixteen long hundreds of men, and the tale of the four men that now be in Silverdale, newcomers and all, shall be three-thousands are there about, and in Rosdale hard on a thousand. Scarce are many, said Volkmacht. Some of the felons have died. We told over our silver arm rings yesterday, and the tale was three-hundred and eighty and six. Besides, they were never so many as thou deemest. Well, said face of God, yet at least they shall outnumber us sorely. We may scarce leave the Dale unguarded when our host is gone. Therefore I deem that we shall have but one thousand of our men for onslaught on Silverdale. How come you to that? said stone face. Said face of God. Abide awhile, fosterer. Though the odds between us be great, it is not to be hidden, that I watch how ye of the wolf know of privy passes into Silverdale. Ye into the heart thereof, and this is the special gain you have to give us. Therefore we, the thousand men, falling on the four unawares, shall make a great slaughter of them, and if the murder be but grim enough, those thralls of theirs shall fear us and not them, as already they hate them and not us, so that we may look to them for rooting out these sorry weeds after the overthrow, and what with one thing, what with another, we may cherish a good hope of clearing Silverdale as one stroke with the said thousand men. There remain a throwsdale which will be easier to deal with, because the dusky men therein are fewer, and the thralls as many. That also would I fall on at the same time as we fall on Silverdale, with the men that are left over from the Silverdale onslaught. Wherefore my reed is, that we gather all those unmeets for battle in the field into this burg, with ten-tens of men to strengthen them, which shall be enough for them, along with the old men and lads and sturdy women, to defend themselves till help comes, if ought of evil befall, or to flee into the mountains, or at the worst to die valiantly. Then let the other five-hundreds fare up to Rosdale, and fall on the dusky men therein about the same time, but not before our onslaught on Silverdale. Thus shall hand help foot, so that stumbling be not falling, and we may well hope that our reed shall thrive. Then he was silent, and the sunbeam looked upon him with gleaming eyes and parted lips, waiting eagerly to hear what folk might would say. He held his piece awhile, drumming on the board with his fingers, and none else spake a word. At last he said, Walleader of Burgdale, all that thou hast spoken likes me well, and even so must it be done, saving that parting of our host, and sending one part to fall on Rosdale. I say, Nay, let us put all our might into that one stroke on Silverdale, and then we are undone indeed if we fail. But so shall we be if we fail anyways, but if we win Silverdale, then shall Rosdale lie open before us. My brother, said face of God, thou art a tried warrior, and I but a lad, but dost thou not see this, that whatever we do, we shall not at one onslaught slay all the dusky men of Silverdale, and those that flee before us shall be take them to Rosdale, and tell all the tale, and what shall hinder them then from falling on Burgdale, since they are no great way from it, after they have murdered what they will of the unhappy people under their hands. Said folk might, I say not, but there is a risk thereof, but in war we must needs run such risks, and all should be risked rather than that our blow on Silverdale be light. For we be the fewer, and if the four men have time to call that to mind, then are we all lost. Said Stove face, misymeth war leader, that there is not so much to dread in leaving Rosdale to itself for a while, for not only may we follow hard on the fleas if they flee to Rosdale, and be there no long time after them before they have time to stir their host, but also, after the overthrow, we shall be free to send men back to Burgdale by way of shadowy veil. I deem that herein folk might have the right of it. Even so say I, said the Olderman, besides, we might then leave more folk behind us for the warding of the Dale. So, son, the risk whereof thou speakest growth the lesser the longer it is looped on. Then spake the Dale warden, yet, saving your wisdom, Olderman, the risk is there yet, for if these fellas come into the Dale at all, even if the folk left behind hold the Burg and keep themselves un-murdered. Yet may they not hinder the foe from spoiling our homesteads, so that our folk, coming back in triumph, shall find ruin at home, and spend weary days in hunting their foremen, who shall, many of them, escape into the wild wood. Ye, said the Sunbeam, sooth is that, and face of God is wise to think of it, and of other matters. Yet one thing we must bear in mind, that all may not go smoothly in our day's work in Silverdale. So we must have force there to fall back on, in case we miss our stroke at first. Therefore, I say, send we no man to Rosedale, and leave we no able man at arms behind in the Burg, so that we have with us every blade that may be gathered. Ironface smiled and said, Though art wise, damsel, and a marvel that so fair fashion to think as thou can think so hardly of the meeting of the Fallow Blades. But Harkon, I will not the dusky men hear that we have stripped the dale of fighting men, and may they not then give our host the go-by, and send folk to ruin us. There was silence, while face of God looked down on the board. But presently he lifted up his face and said, Folk might was right, when he said that all must be wrist. Let us leave Rosedale, so we have overcome them of Silverdale. Moreover, my father, thou must not deem of these felons as if they were of like wits to us, to forecast the days to come, and weigh the chances nicely, and unravel tangled clues. Rather, they move like to the stairs in autumn, or the winter wild geese, and will all be thrust forward by some sting that entereth into their imaginations. Therefore, if they have appointed one moon to wear before they fall upon us, they will not stir till then, and we have time enough to do what must be done. Wherefore am I now of one mind with the rest of you? Now, me Seymouth, it were well that these things which we have spoken here, and shall speak, should not be noised abroad openly. Nay, at the Folkmoat it would be well that naught be said about the day, or the way of our onslaught on Silverdale, lest the foetate warning and be on their guard. Though soothed to say, did I deem that if they had word of our intent, they of Rosdale would join themselves to them of Silverdale, and that we should thus have all our foes in one net. Then were I feign if the word would reach them, for my soul loathes the hunting that shall befall up and down the wood for the slaying of a man here, and two or three there, and the wearing of the days in wandering up and down with weapons in the hand, and the spinning out of hatred and delaying of peace. Then I am face reached his hand across the board, and took his son's hand, and said, Hail to thee, son, for thy world! Herein thou speakest as if from my very soul, and feign am I of such a war-leader! And desire drew the eyes of the sun-beam to face of God, and she beheld him proudly, but he said, All hath been spoken that the others of us may speak, and now it falleth to the part of Folkmoat to order our goings for the trist for the unslot, and the tristing place shall be in shadowy veil. How sayest thou, chief of the wolf? said Folkmite. Have little to say, and it is for the war-leader to see to this closely and piecemeal. I deem, as we all deem, that there should be no delay. Yet were it best to wend not altogether to shadowy veil, but in diverse bands, as soon as ye may after the Folkmoat, by the shore and thy ways that we shall show you. And when we are gathered there, short is the reed, for all is ready there to wend by the passes which we know thoroughly, and whereby it is but two days journey to the head of Silverdale, night are the caves of the silver, where the felons dwell the thickest. He set his teeth, and his colour came and went, for as constantly as the unslot had been in his mind, yet whenever he spake of the great day of battle, hope and joy and anger wrought a tumult in his soul, and now that it was so nigh with all, he could not refrain his joy. But he spake again, now therefore war-leader, it is for thee to order the goins of thy Folk, but I will tell thee, that they shall not need to take art with them, save their weapons and victual for the way, that is, for thirty hours, because all is ready for them in shadowy veil, though it be but a poor place as to victual. Cast thou tell us therefore what thou wilt do. Face of God had knit his brows, and had become gloomy of countenance, but now his face cleared, and he set his hand to his pouch, and drew forth a written parchment, and said, This is the order whereof I have bethought me. Before the Folk-moat, I and the Wardens, shall speak to the leaders of hundreds, who will be mostly here at the fair, and give them the day and the hour whereon they shall each hundred take their weapons and when to shadowy veil, and also the place where they shall meet the men of yours, who shall lead them across the waist. These hundred leaders shall then go straight away, and give the word to the captains of scores, and the captains of scores to the captains of ten. And if, as is scarce doubtful, the Folk-moat ye says the onslaught, and the fellowship with you of the wolf, then shall those leaders of tens bring their men to the tristing place, and so go their ways to shadowy veil. Now here I have the role of our weaponshow, and I will look to it that none shall be passed over, and if ye ask me in what order they had best get on the way, my read is that a two hundred should depart on the very evening of the day of the Folk-moat, and these to be of our Folk of the Upper Dale, and on the morning of the Morrow of the Folk-moat, another two hundred from the Dale, and in the evening of the same day, the Folk of the Shepherds, three hundreds or more, and that will be easy to them. Again on the next day, two more bands of the Lower Dale, one in the morning, one in the evening. Lastly, in the earliest dawn of the third day from the Folk-moat, shall the woodlanders wend their ways, but one hundred of men let us leave behind for the warding of the Burg, even as we agreed before. As for the place of Trist for the fairing over the waist, let it be the end of the knolls just by the jaws of the pass yonder, where the weltering water comes into the Dale from the east. How say ye? They all said, and Folk-moat especially, that it was right well devised, and thus it should be done. Then turned face of God to the Dale-warden and said, It were good, brother, that we saw the other wardens as soon as may be, to do them to wit of this order, and what they have to do. Therewith he arose and took the elder of the Dale-wardens away with him, and the twain set about their business straight way. Neither did the others abide long in the hall, but went out into the Burg to see the Chapman and their wares. There the alderman bought what he needed of iron and steel and other matters, and Folk-moat cheapened him a dagger, curiously wrought, and a web of gold and silk for the sunbeam, for which wares he paid in silver arm rings, new wrought, and of strange fashion. But a midst of the chaffer was now a great ring of men, and in the midst of the ring stood Reedsman, fiddle and bow in hand, and with him were four damsels, wondrously arrayed. For the first was clad in a smock, so craftily wrought with threads of green and many colours, that it seemed like a piece of the green field, beset with primroses and cow slips and hair-bells and wind-flowers. Rather than a garment's woven and sewn. And in her hand she bore a naked sword, with golden hilts and gleaming blade. But the second bore on her roses, done in like manner, both blossoms and green leaves, wherewith her body was covered decently, which else had been naked. The third was clad as though she were wading the wheat-field to the waste, and above was wrapped in the leaves and bunches of the wine-tree. And the fourth was clad in a scarlet gown, flecked with white wool, to set forth the winter's snow, and broided over with the burning brands of the holy hearth. As she bore on her head a garland of mistletoe, and these four damsels were clearly seen to image the four seasons of the year, spring, summer, autumn and winter. But amidst them stood a fountain or conduit of gilded work, cunningly wrought, and full of the best wine of the dale, and gilded cups and beakers hung about it. So now Reedsman fell to caressing his fiddle with the bow till it began to make sweet music, and therewith the hearths of all danced with it, and presently words came into his mouth, and he fell to singing, and the damsels answered him, Earth-wielders, that fashion the dale-dweller's treasure, soft are ye by seeming, yet hardy of heart. No warrior amongst us, with standard for your pleasure, no man from his meadow may thrust you apart. Fresh and fair are your bodies, but far beyond telling, are the years of your lives, and the craft ye have stored. Come, give us a word, then, concerning our dwelling, and the days to befall us, the fruit of the sword. Winter saith, when last in the feast all the yule fire flickered, the foot of no foreman fared over the snow, and nought but the wind with the ash-branches bickered, next yule ye may deem it a long time ago. Autumn saith, loud laughed ye last year in the wheat-fielder smiting, and ye laughed as your backs draved the beam of the press. When the edge of the war-sword, the acres are lighting, look up to the banner, and laugh ye no less. Summer saith, ye called, and I came, and how good was the greeting, when ye wrapped me in roses, both bosom and side. Here yet shall I long and be faint of our meeting, as hidden from battle your coming I bide. Spring saith, I am here for your comforts, and lo, what I carry, the blade with the bright edges bared to the sun. To the field, to the work, then, the teen I may tarry, for the end of the tale in my first days begun. Therewith the throng opened, and a young man stepped lightly into the ring, clad in a very fair armour with a gilded helm on his head, and he took the sword from the hand of the maiden of spring, and waved it in the air till the westering sun flashed back from it. Then each of the four damsels went up to the swain and kissed his mouth, and reedsmen drew the bow across the strings, and the four damsels sang together, standing round about the young warrior. It was but a while since the first day we traveled, lest the increase our life days had won for the dale. All the wealth that the moons and the years had assembled should she be to mock for the days of your bail. But now we behold the sun's smite on the token, in the hand of the champion, the heart of the man. We look down the long years and see them unbroken, for fairer of the folk by the ways it began. So big he is champion in autumn returning, to bring iron for ploughshares and steel for the scythe, and they obviously oiled as I felt the sun's burning, and fair webs for your women's soft spoken and lithe. And pledge ye your word in the markets and meet them, as many a man and as many a maid. As eager as ever as guests feigned to greet them, and a party till the booth from the wagon is made. Come, guests of our lovers, for we the year wielders, bid each man and all to come hither, and take a cup from our hands, mist of the peace of our shielders, and drink to the days of the dale that we make. Then went the damsels to that wine fountain, and drew then cups of the best and brightest wine of the dale, and went round about the ring, and gave drink to whom so ever would, both of the Chapman and the others, while the weapon youth stood in the midst, bearing aloft his sword and shield like an image in a holy place. And Reedsman's bow still went up and down the strings, and drew forth the sweet and merry tune. Great game it was now to see the stark burgdale-calls, dragging the men of the plain, little loath up to the front of the ring, that they might stretch out their hands for a cup, and how many a one as he took it, took as much as he might of the damsels hand with all. As for the damsels, they played the holy play very daintily, neither reddening nor laughing, but fairing so solemnly, and with all so sweetly and bright-faced, that it might well have been deemed that they were in very sooth, maidens of the God of earth, sent from the ever-enduring hall to cheer the hearts of men, so simply and blithely did the men of Burgdale desport them, after the manner of their fathers, trusting in their valour, and beholding the good days to be. So wore the evening, and when night was come, men feasted throughout the burg from house to house, and every hall was full. But the guests from shadowy veil feasted in the hall of the face, in all glee and goodwill, and with them with the chief of the Chapman and two others. But the rest of them had been laid hold off by good men of the Burg, and dragged into their feast halls, for they were fain of those guests and their tales. One of the Chapman in the house of the face knew Folkmite, and hailed him by the name he had borne in the cities, regulous to it. Indeed the chief Chapman knew him, and even somewhat over well, for he had been held to ransom by Folkmite in those past days, and even yet feared him, because he, the Chapman, had played somewhat of a dastard's part to him. But the other was an open-hearted and merry fellow, and no weakling, and Folkmite was fain of his talk concerning times by gone, and the fields they had fought in, and other adventures that had befallen them, both good and evil. As for face of God, he went about the hall soberly, and spake no more than behoved him, so as not to seem a ma-feast, for the image of the slaughter to be, yet abode with him, and his heart verboded the after-grief of the battle. He had no speech with the sun-beam, till men were sundering after the feast, and then he came close to her, amidst of the turmoil, and said, Time presses on me these days, but if thou wouldest speakest with me tomorrow, as I would with thee, then mightest thou go on the bridge of the Burg about sunrise, and I will be there, and we too only. Her face, which had been somewhat sad that evening, for she had been watching his, brightened at that word, and she took his hand as Folk came thronging round about them, and said, Yeah, friend, I shall be there, and fain of thee, and there with all they sundered for that night. And all men went to sleep throughout the Burg, how be it they set a watch at the Burg gate, and Hall-face, when he was coming back from the woodland ward about sunset, fell in with red coat of waterless, and forescore men on the Portway, coming to meet him and take his place. All which was clean contrary to the want of the Burg Daelus, who at most wiles held no watch and ward, not even in fair time. Chapter 35 Of the Roots of the Mountains by William Morris This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Face of God talketh with the Sunbeam. Face of God was at the bridge on the morrow, before sun rising, and as he turned about at the bridge-foot, he saw the Sunbeam coming down the street, and his heart rose to his mouth at the sight of her, and he went to meet her, and took her by the hand. And there were no words between them till they had kissed and caressed each other, for there was no one stirring about them. So they went over the bridge into the meadows, and eastward of the beaten path thereover. The grass was growing thick and strong, and it was full of flowers, as the cow-slip and the ox-slip and the chequered daffodil and the wild tulip. The black-thorn was well nigh done blooming, but the hawthorn was in bud, and in some places growing white. It was a fair morning, warm and cloudless, but the nights had been misty, and the haze still hung about the meadows of the dale, where they were wettest, and the grass and its flowers were heavy with dew, so that the Sunbeam went barefoot in the meadow. She had a dark cloak cast over her kirtle, and had left her glittering gown behind her in the house. They went along hand in hand, exceeding feign of each other, and the Sun rose as they went, and the long beams of gold shone through the tops of the tall trees across the grass they trod, and a light wind rose up in the north, as face of God stayed a moment, and turned toward the face of the Sun and prayed to him, while the Sunbeam's hand left the war leader's hand, and stole up to his golden locks and lay amongst them. Presently they went on, and the feet of face of God led him unwitting toward the chestnut grove by the old dyke, where he had met the bride such a little while ago, till he be thought whither he was going, and stopped short and reddened, and the Sunbeam noted it, but spake not, but he said, hereby is a fair place for us to sit and talk, till the day's work beginneth. So then he turned aside, and soon they came to a hawthorn break, out of which arose a great tall stemmed oak, showing no greeners yet, save a little on its lower twigs, and a night, yet with room for its boughs to grow freely, was a great bird-cherry tree, all covered now with sweet-smelling white blossoms. There they sat down on the trunk of a tree felled last year, and she cast off her cloak, and took his face between her two hands, and kissed him long and fondly, and for a while their joy had no word, but when speech came to them it was she that spake first, and said, Goldmane, my dear, sorely I wonder at the end of me, how we have changed since that day last autumn, when I first saw thee. Wiles, I think, didst thou not laugh when thou worked by thyself that day, and mock at me privily, that I must neez take such wisdom on myself, and lessen thee standing like a stripling before me. Dost thou not call it all to mind, and make merry over it, now that thou art become a great chieftain, and a wise warrior, and I am yet what I always was, a young maiden of the kindred, save that now I abide no longer for my love. Her face was exceeding bright, and rippled with joyous smiles, and he looked at her, and deemed that her heart was overflowing with happiness, and he wondered at her, indeed, that she was so glad of him, and he said, Yea, indeed, off do I see that morning in the woodland hall, and thee and me therein, as one looketh on a picture. Yea, verily, and I laugh, yet is it for very bliss, neither do I mock at all. Did I not deem thee a God, then, and am I not most happy now, when I can call it thus to mind? And as to thee, thou wert wise, then, and yet art thou wise now. Yea, I thought thee a God, and if we are changed, is it not rather that thou hast lifted me up to thee, and not come down to me? Yet there with all he knits his brows somewhat, and said, Yet thou hast not to tell me that all thy love for thy folk, and thy yearning hope for its recoverance, was but a painted show. Else, why should thou love me the better, now that I am become a chieftain, and therefore am more meat to understand thy hope and thy sorrow? Did I not behold thee, as we stood before the wolf of the hall of shadowy veil, how the tears stood in thine eyes as thou beheldest him, and thine hand in mine quivered and clung to me, and thou wert all changed in a moment of time? Was all this, then, but a seeming and a beguilement? Oh, young man, she said, as thou not said it, that we stood there close together, and my hand in thine, and desire growing up in me. Does thou not know how this also quickeneth the story of our folk, and our good will towards the living, and remembrance of the dead? Shall they have lived and desired, and we deny desire and life? Oh, tell me, what was it made thee so chieftain like in the hall yesterday, so that thou wert the master of all our wills? For as self-willed as some of us were, was it not that I, whom thou deemest lovely, was thereby watching thee and rejoicing in thee? Did not the sweetness of thy love quicken thee? Yet, because of that, was thy warrior's wisdom and thy foresight an empty show. He dost thou not of the folk of the dale? Wouldest thou sonder from the children of the fathers, and dwell among strangers? He kissed her, and smiled on her, and said, Did I not say of thee that thou wert wiser than the daughters of men? See how wise thou hast made me! She spake again, Nay, nay, there was no feigning in my love for my people. How couldest thou think it, when the fathers and the kindred have made this body, that thou lovest? And the voice of their songs is in the speech thou deemest sweet. He said, Sweet friend, I deem not that there was feigning in thee. I was but wondering what I am, and how I was fashioned, that I should make thee so glad that thou couldst for a while forget thy hope of the days before we met. She said, Oh, how glad! How glad! Yet was I naught hapless! In despite of all trouble I had no down-weighing grief, and I had the hope of my people before me. Good were my days, but I knew not, or now, how glad a child of man may be. Their words were hushed for a while amidst their caresses. Then she said, Goldmane, my friend, I mocked not my past self, because I deem that I was a fool then, but because I see now, that all my wisdom could do, would have come about without my wisdom, and that thou, deeming thyself something less than wise, didst accomplish the thing I craved, and that which thou didst crave also, and with all wisdom embraced thee, along with love. Therewith she cast her arms about him, and said, Oh, friend, I mock myself of this, that arse thou deemest me a God and fearst me, but now thou seemest to me to be a God, and I fear thee. Yea, though I have long so sore to be with thee since the day of shadowy veil, and though I have wearied of the slow wearing of the days, and it hath tormented me, yet now that I am with thee, I bless the torment of my longing, for it is but my longing that compeleth me to cast away my fear of thee and caress thee, because I have learned how sweet it is to love thee thus. He wound his arms about her, and sweeter was their longing the mere joy, and though their love was beyond measure, yet was therein no shame to ought, not even to the lovely dale, and that fair season of spring, so goodly they were among the children of men. In a while they arose and turned homeward, and went over the open meadow, and it was yet early, and the dew was as heavy on the grass as before, though the wide sunlight was now upon it, glittering on the wet blades, and shining through the bells of the checkered daffodils, so they looked like gouts of blood. Luke said some beam as they went along by the same way where as they came, deem us thou not that other speech-friends besides us have been abroad to talk together apart on this morning of the eve of battle. It is not unwanted that we do, even though we forget the trouble of the people, to think of our own joy for a while. The smile died out of her face as she spoke, and she said, Oh friend, this much may I say for myself in all sooth, that indeed I would die for the kindred and its good days, nor falter therein, but if I am to die, might I but die in thine arms. He looked very lovingly on her, and put his arms about her, and kissed her, and said, What ails us to stand in the doomering and bear witness against ourselves before the kindred? Now I will say that whatsoever the kindred may or can call upon me to do, that will I do, nor grudge the deed. I am sackless before them. But that is true which I spake to thee when we came together up out of shadowy veil, to it that I am no strifeful man, but a peaceful, and I look to it to win through this war, and find on the other side either death or life amongst a happy folk, and I deem that this is mostly the mind of our people. She said, Thou shalt not die! Thou shalt not die! May happen not, he said. Yet yesterday I could not but look into the slaughter to come, and it seemed to me a grim thing, and darkened the day for me, and I grew a cold as a man walking with the dead. But tell me, thou sayest I shall not die, dost thou say this only because I am become dear to thee, or dost thou speak it out of thy foresight of things to come? She stopped and looked silently a while over the meadows towards the houses of Thorpe. They were standing now on the border of a shallow brook that ran down toward the well-turing water. It had a little strand of fine sand like the seashore, driven close together and all moist, because that brook was used to flood the meadow for the feeding of the grass. And the last evening the hatches which held up the water had been drawn, so that much had ebbed away and left the strand aforesaid. After a while the sunbeam turned to face of God, and she was become somewhat pale. She said, Nay, I have striven to see, and can see not save the picture of hope and fear that I make for myself. So it oft befalleth foreseeing women, that the love of a man cloudeth their vision. Be content, dear friend, it is for life or death, for which so it be, the same for me and thee together. Yea, he said, and well content I am. So now let each of us trust in the other to be both good and dear, even as I trusted in thee the first hour that I looked on thee. It is well, she said, it is well. How fair thou art, and how fair is the morn, and this our dail in the goodly season, and all this abideeth us when the battle is over. Once more her voice became sweet and weedling, and the smile lit up her face again, and she pointed down to the sand with her finger, and said, See thou, here indeed have other lovers passed by across the brook, shall we wish them good luck? He laughed and looked down on the sand, and said, Though art in haste to make a story up, indeed I see that these first footprints are of a woman, for no carl of the dail has a foot as small, for we be tall fellows. And these others with all are a man's footprints, and if they showed that they had been walking side by side, simple had been thy tale. But so it is not. I cannot say that these two pairs of feet went over the brook within five minutes of each other, but sure it is that they could not have been faring side by side. Well, be like, they were lovers bickering, and we may wish them look out of that. Truly it is well seen that Bome hath done thine hunting for thee, dear friend, or else wouldest thou have lacked benison, for thou hast no hunt as I. Well, she said, But wish them luck, and give me thine hand upon it. He took her hand and fondled it, and said, By this hand of my speech friend, I wish these twain, or luck, in love and in leisure, in fairing and fighting, in sowing and samming, in getting and giving. Is it well enough wished? If so it be, then come thy ways, dear friend, for the day's work is at hand. It is well wished, she said. Now harken, by the valiant hand of the war-leader, by the hand that shall unloose my girdle, I wish these twain to be as happy as we be. He made as if to draw her away, but she hung back to set the print of her foot beside the woman's foot, and then they went on together, and soon crossed the bridge, and came home to the house of the face. When they had broken their fast, face of God would straight get to his business of ordering matters for the warfare, and was wishful to speak with folk might, but found him not, either in the house or in the street. But a man said, I saw the tall guests come abroad from the house, and go toward the bridge very early in the morning. The sunbeam, who was a nigh when that was spoken, heard it and smiled, and said, go, main, deem us thou that it was my brother whom we blessed? I what not, he said, but I would he were here, for this gear must speedily be looked to. Nevertheless it was nigh an hour before folk might came home to the house. He strode in lightly and gaily, and shaking the crest of his war-helms he went. He looked friendly on face of God, and said to him, thou hast been seeking me, war-leader, but grudge it not that I have caused thee to tarry, for as things have gone, I am twice the man for thine helping that I was, yes, their eve, and thou art so ready and deft, that all will be done in due time. He looked as if he would have had face of God ask of him what made him so faint. But face of God said only, I am glad of thy gladness, but now let us dally no longer, for I have many folk to see today, and much to set a going. So therewith they spake together awhile, and then went their ways together toward Carlstead and the woodlanders. End of Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Of The Roots of the Mountains by William Morris This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Folk might speaketh with the bride. It must be told that these footprints which face of God and the Sunbeam had blessed betwixt Jest and Ernest had more to do with them than they wanted of. For Folk might, who had had many thoughts and longing since he had seen the bride again, rose up early about sunrise, and went out adores, and wandered about the Burg, letting his eyes stray over the goodly stone houses and their trim gardens, yet noting them little, since the bride was not there. At last he came to where there was an open place, straight-sided, longer than it was wide, with a wall on each side of it, over which showed the blossomed boughs of pear and cherry and plum trees. On either hand before the wall was a row of great lindons, now showing their first tender green, especially on their lower twigs, where they were sheltered by the wall. At the nether end of this place Folk might saw a grey stone house, and he went towards it to betwixt the lindons, for it seemed right great, and presently was but a score of paces from its door, and as yet there was no man, carl or queen, stirring about it. It was a long low house with a very steep roof, but be like the hall was built over some undercroft. For many steps went up to the door on either hand, and the doorway was low with a straight lintel under its arch. This house, like the house of the face, seemed ancient and somewhat strange, and Folk might could not choose but take note of it. The front was all of good ashlar work, but it was carven all over, without heed being paid to the joints of the stones, into one picture of a flowery meadow, with tall trees and bushes in it, and fowl perched in the trees, and running through the grass, and sheep and kind and oxen and horses feeding down the meadow. And over the door, at the top of the stair, was raw to great steer bigger than all the other neat, whose head was turned toward the sun rising, and uplifted with open mouth as though he were lowing aloud. Exceeding fair seemed that house to Folk might, and as though it were the dwelling of some great kindred. But he had scarce gone over it with his eyes, and was just about to draw naya yet to it, when the door at the top of those steps opened, and a woman came out of the house, clad in a green kirtle, and a gown of brazil, with a golden hilted sword good to her side. Folk might saw at once that it was the bride, and drew her back behind one of the trees, so that she might not see him, if she had not already seen him, as it seemed not that she had. For she stayed but for a moment on the top of the stair, looking out down the tree-rose, and then came down the stair, and went soberly along the road, passing so close to Folk might, that he could see the fashion of her beauty closely as one looks into the work of some deftest artificer. Then it came suddenly into his head that he would follow her, and see whether she was wending. At least, he said to himself, if I come not to speak with her, I shall be naya unto her, and shall see somewhat of her beauty. So he came out quietly from behind the tree, and followed her softly, and he was clad in no garment save his kirtle, and bear no weapons to clash and jingle, though he had his helm on his head for lack of a softer hat. He kept her well in sight, and she went straight onward and looked not back. She went by the way where as he had come till they were in the main street, wherein as yet was no one afoot. She made her way to the bridge, and passed over it into the meadows, but when she had gone but a few steps, she stayed a little and looked on the ground, and as she did so, turned a little toward Folkmite, who had drawn back into the last of the refuges over the upstream buttresses. He saw that there was a half-smile on her face, but he could not tell whether she were glad or sorry. A light wind was beginning to blow that stirred her raiment, and raised a lock of hair that had strayed from the golden fillet round about her head, and she looked most marvellous fair. Now she looked along the grass that glittered under the beams of the newly risen sun, and noted be like how heavy the dew lay on it, and the grass was high already, for the spring had been hot and hazel would be early in the dale. So she put off her shoes that were of deerskin embroidered with golden threads, and turned somewhat from the way, and hung them up amidst the new green leaves of a hawthorn bush that stood nearby, and so went, thwart the meadow, somewhat eastward, straight from that bush, and her feet shone out like pearls amidst the deep green grass. Folkmite followed presently, and she stayed not again, nor turned, nor beheld him. He wrecked not if she had, for then would he have come up with her and hailed her, and he knew that she was no foolish maiden to start at the sight of a man who was the friend of her folk. So they went their ways till she came to the strand of the water-medow brook aforesaid, and she went through the little ripples of the shallow without staying, and on through the tall deep grass of the meadow beyond, to where they met the brook again, for it swept round the meadow in a wide curve, and turned back toward itself, so it was some half fur long over from water to water. She stood awhile on the brink of the brook there, which was brimful and nigh running into the grass, because there was a dam just below the place, and Folkmite drew nigher to her, under cover of the thorn-brushes, and looked at the place about her and beyond her. The meadow beyond stream was very fair and flowery, but not right great, for it was bounded by a grove of ancient chestnut trees that went on and on toward the southern cliffs of the dale. In front of the chestnut wood stood a broken row of blackthorn bushes, now growing green and losing their blossom, and he could see betwixt them that there was a grassy bank running along, as if there had once been a turf wall and ditch round about the chestnut trees, for indeed this was the old place of trist between Goldmane and the Bride, whereof the tale hath told before. The Bride stayed scarce longer than gave him time to note all this, but he deemed that she was weeping, though he could not rightly see her face, for her shoulders heaved, and she hung her face down and put up her hands to it, but now she went a little higher up the stream, where the water was shallower, and waded the stream, and went up over the meadow, still weeping as he deemed, and went between the blackthorn bushes, and sat her down on the grassy bank, with her back to the chestnut trees. Folkmite was ashamed to have seen her weeping, and was half-minded to turn him back again at once, but love constrained him, and he said to himself, where shall I see her again, privily, if I pass by this time and place? So he waited a little, till he deemed she might have mastered the passion of tears, and then came forth from his bush, and went down to the water, and crossed it, and went quietly over the meadow, straight to water. But he was not half-way across, when she lifted up her face from between her hands, and beheld the man coming. She neither started nor rose up, but straightened herself as she sat, and looked right into Folkmite's eyes as he drew near, though the tears were not dry on her cheeks. Now he stood before her and said, Hail to the daughter of a mighty house! Mayst thou live happy? She answered, Hail to thee also, guest of our Folk! Hast thou been wondering about our meadows, and happened on me perchance? Nay, he said, I saw thee come forth from the house of the steer, and I followed thee hither. She reddened a little, and knit her brow, and said, Thou wilt have something to say to me? I have much to say to thee, he said, yet it was sweet to me to behold thee, even if I might not speak with thee. She looked on him with her deep, simple eyes, and neither reddened again, nor seemed her off. Then she said, Speak what thou hast in thine heart, and I will harken without anger whatsoever it may be, even if thou hast but to tell me of the passing folly of a mighty man, which in a month or two he will not remember for sorrow or for joy. Sit here beside me and tell me thy thoughts. So he sat him her down, and said, Yea, I have much to say to thee, but it is hard to me to say it. But this I will say, today and yesterday make the third time I have seen thee. The first time, thou wert happy and calm, and no shadow of trouble was on thee. The second time, thine happy days were waning, though thou scarce newest it. But today and yesterday, thou art constrained by the bonds of grief, and wouldest loosen them if thou mightest. She said, What meanest thou? How knowest thou this? How mayest stranger partake in my joy and my sorrow? He said, As for yesterday, all the people might see thy grief and know it. But when I beheld thee the first time, I saw thee, that thou wert more fair and lovely than all other women. And when I was away from thee, the thought of thee and thine image were with me, and I might not put them away. And oft at such and such a time, I wondered, and said to myself, What is she doing now? Though God-what I was dealing with tangles and troubles and rough deeds enough. But the second time I beheld thee, when I had looked to have great joy in the sight of thee, my heart was smitten with a pang of grief, for I saw thee hanging on the words and the looks of another man who was light-minded toward thee, and that thou wert troubled with the anguish of doubt and fear, and he knew it not, nor saw it, though I saw it. Her face grew troubled, and the tearful passion stirred within her, but she held it aback and said, as any one might have said it. How wert thou in the dail mighty man? We saw thee not. He said, I came hither, hidden in other semblers than mine own, but meddle not therewith, it availeth not. Let me say this, and do thou harken to it. I saw thee yesterday in the street, and thou wert as the ghost of thine own gladness, although be like thou hast striven with sorrow, for I see thee with a sword by thy side, and we've been told that thou, O fairest of women, hast given thyself to the warrior to be his damsel. Ye, she said, that is sooth. He went on, but the face which thou bearest yesterday against thy will, amidst all the people, that was because thou hast seen my sister the sunbeam for the first time, and face of God wither, hand clinging to hand, lip longing for lip, desire unsatisfied, but glad with all hope. She laid hand upon hand in the lap of her gown and lugged down, and her voice trembled, as she said. Doth it availed to talk of this? He said, and o not, it may avail, for I am grieved, and shall be, whilst thou art grieved, and it is my want to strive with my griefs till I amend them. She turned to him with kind eyes, and said, O mighty man, canst thou clear away the tangle which beset as the soul of her, whose hope hath berayed her? Canst thou make hope grow up in her heart? Friend, I will tell thee, that when I wed, I shall wed for the sake of the kindred, hoping for no joy therein. Ye, or if by some chance the desire of man came again into my heart, I should strive with it to rid myself of it, for I should know of it, that it was but a wasting folly, that should but beguile me and wound me, and depart, leaving me empty of joy, and heedless of life. He shook his head, and said, Even so thou dimest now, but one day it shall be otherwise, or dost thou love thy sorrow? I tell thee, as it wears thee and wears thee, thou shalt hate it, and strive to shake it off. Nay, nay, she said, I love it not, for not only it grieve with me, but also it's beateth me down and belittle of me. Good is that, said he, I know how strong thine heart is. Now, wilt thou take mine hand, which is verily the hand of thy friend, and remember what I have told thee of my grief, which cannot be sundered from thine? Shall we not talk more concerning this? For surely, I shall soon see thee again, and often, since the warrior, who loveth me be like, leadeth thee into fellowship with me. Ye, I tell thee, O friend, that in that fellowship shalt thou find both the seed of hope and the son of desire that shall quicken it. Therewith he arose and stood before her, and held out to her his hand, all hardened with the sword-hilt, and she took it, and stood up, facing him, and said, This much will I tell thee, O friend, that what I have said to thee this hour, I thought not to have said to any man, or to talk with a man of the grief that weareth me, or to suffer him to see my tears. And marvellous I deem it of thee, for all thy might, that thou hast drawn this speech from out of me, and left me neither angry nor ashamed, in spite of these tears, and thou whom I have known not, though thou knewest me. But now it were best that thou depart, and get thee home to the house of the face, where I was once so frequent, for I watched that thou hast much to do, and as thou sayest it will be in warfare that I shall see thee. Now I thank thee for thy words, and the thought thou hast had of me, and the pain which thou hast taken to heal my hurt. I thank thee, I thank thee, for as grievous as it is to show one's hurt even to a friend. He said, O bride, I thank thee for hearkening to my tail, and one day I shall thank thee much more, mayest thou fare well in the field and amidst the folk. Therewith he kissed her hand, and turned away, and went across the meadow and the stream, glad at heart, and blithe with everyone, for kindness grew in him, as gladness grew. End of chapter 36 Chapter 37 Of the Roots of the Mountains by William Morris This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Of the Folk Moat of the Dalesmen, the Shepard Folk, and the Woodland Carls, the Banner of the Wolf displayed. Now came the day of the great Folk Moat, and there was much thronging from everywhere to the Moatstead, but most from Burgstead itself, whereas few of the daledwellers who had been at the fair had gone back home, albeit some of the Shepards and of the Dalesmen of the Western Moatdale had brought light tents, and tilted themselves in the night before the moat, down in the meadows below the Moatstead. From early morning there had been a stream of Folk on the Portway setting westward, and many came thus early that they might hold converse with friends and well-wishers, and some that they might desport them in the woods. Men went in no ordered vans, as the Burgstead men, at least had done on the day of the Weaponshow, save that a few of them who were arrayed the bravest, gathered about the Banners, and went with them to the Moatstead, for all the banners must need to be there. The Folkmoat was to be hallowed in three hours before noon, as all men knew, therefore an hour before that time were all men of the Dale and the Shepards assembled that might be looked for, save the Alderman and the Chieftains with the banner of the Burg, and these were not like to come many minutes before the hallowing. Folk were gathered on the field in such wise that the men at arms made a great ring about the Doom Ring, albeit there were many old men there, good with swords that they should never heave up again in battle, so that without that ring there was naught save women and children. But when all the other houses were assembled, men looked around and beheld the place of the woodlanders that it was empty, and they marveled that they were thus belated. For now all was ready, and a watcher had gone up to the tower on the height, and had with him the great horn of warning, which could be heard past the Moatstead, and a great way down the Dale, and if he saw foes coming from the east he should blow one blast, if from the south two, if from the west three, if from the north four. So half an hour from the appointed time of hallowing rose the rumour that the Alderman was on the road, and presently they of the women who were on the outside of the Throng, by drawing nigh to the edge of the sheer rock, could behold the banner of the Burg on the portway, and soon after could see the wane, done about with green bows, wherein sat the chieftains in their glittering war gear. Speedily they spread the tidings, and a confused shout went up into the air, and in a little while the wane stayed on Wildlake's way, at the bottom of the steep slope that went up to the Moatstead, and the banner of the Burg came on proudly up the hill. Soon all men beheld it, and saw that the tall hall face bore it in front of his brother face of God, who came on gleaming in war gear better than most men had seen, which was indeed of his father's fashioning, and his father's gift to him that morning. After face of God came the Alderman, and with him Folkmite, leading the Sunbeam by the hand, and then Stoneface and the Elder of the Dalewardens, and then the Six Burgwardens. As to the other Dalewardens, they were in their places on the field. So now those who had been standing up turned their faces toward the altar of the gods, and those who had been sitting down sprang to their feet, and the confused rumour of the throng rose into a clear shout, as the chieftains went to their places, and sat them down in the turf seats, amidst the doomering facing the speech hill, and the altar of the gods. Amid most sat the Alderman, on his right hand face of God, and out from him hall face, and then Stoneface and three of the Wardens. But on his left hand sat first the two guests, then the Elder of the Dalewardens, and then the other three Burgwardens. As for the banner of the Burg, its staff was stuck into the earth behind them, and the banner raised itself in the morning wind and flapped and rippled over their heads. There then they sat, and folk abided, and it still lacked some minutes of the due time, as the Alderman wotted by the shadow of the great standing stone betwixt him and the altar. There with all came the sound of a great horn from out of the wood on the north side, and a man knew it for the horn of the woodland carls, and were glad, for they could not think why they should be belated. And now men stood up a tiptoe, and on others' shoulders to look over the heads of the women and children to behold their coming, but their empty place was at the south-west corner of the ring of men. So presently men beheld them, marching toward their place, cleaving the throng of the women and children a great company. For besides that they had with them two score more of men under weapons than on the day of the weaponshow. All their little ones and women and outworn elders were with them, some on foot, some riding on oxen and asses. In the forefront went the two signs of the battleshaft and the warsphere, but moreover, in front of all was born a great staff with the cloth of a banner wrapped round about it, and tied up with a hemp and yarn, as it might not be seen. Stark and mighty men they looked, tall and lean, broad-shouldered, dark-faced, as they came amongst the throng, the voice of their horn died out, and for a few moments they fared on with no sound saved the tramp of their feet. Then, all at once, the man who bare the hidden banner lifted up one hand, and straightway they fell to singing, and with that song they came to their place, and this is some of what they sang. Oh white, white sun, what things of wonder has thou beheld from thy wall of the sky? All the roofs of the rich and the grief thereunder, as the fear of the earl-folk flittered by. Thou hast seen the flame steal forth from the forest, to slay the slumber of the lands, as the dusky lord whom thou abhorrest clump up to thy burg on built with hands. Thou, Lucas, down from thy door, the golden, nor bait us thy wide-shining mirth, as the ramparts fall in the roof-trees olden, like smouldering low on the burning earth. When flittered the half-dark night of summer, from the face of the murder greatened grim, tis thou thyself, and no newcomer, shines golden bright on the deed on dim. Ad thou, our friend, O day dawn's lover, full off thine hand hath sent a slant, bright beams of thwart, the wood-bear's cover, where the feeble folk in the nameless haunts. Thou hast seen us quail, Thou hast seen us cower, Thou hast seen us crouch in the green abode, while for us were thou slaying slow, hour by hour, and smoothing down the war-rough road. Yea, the rocks of the waste were thy dawn's upheaving, to let the days of the years go through, and thy noons the tangled break were cleaving, the slow-foot seasons deed to do. Then gaze a down on this gift of our giving, for the wolf comes wending frith and ford, and the folk fares forth from the dead to the living, for the love of the leaf by the light of the sword. Then cease the song, and the whole band of the woodlanders came tumultuously into the space allotted them, like the waters pouring over a river-down, their white swords waving aloft in the morning sunlight, and wild and strange cries rose up from amidst them, with sobbing and weeping of joy. But soon their troubled fronts sank back into ordered ranks, their bright blades stood upright in their hands before them, and folk looked on their company and deemed it the very terror of battle and render of the ranks of war. Right well were they armed, for though many of the weapons were ancient and somewhat worn, yet were they the work of good smiths of old days, and moreover, if any of them lacked good war gear of his own, that had the alderman and his sons made good to them. But before the hedge of steel stood the two tall men, who held in their hands the war tokens of the battleshaft and the war spear, and betwixt them stood one who was indeed the tallest man of the whole assembly, who held the great staff of the hidden banner, and now he reached up his hand and plucked at the yarn that found it, which of set purpose was but feeble, and tore it off, and then shook the staff aloft with both hands and shouted, and lo! the banner of the wolf, with the sunburst behind him, glittering bright, new woven by the women of the kindred, ran out in the fresh wind, and flapped and rippled before his warriors there assembled. Then from all over the moatstead arose an exceeding great shout, and all men waved aloft their weapons. But the men of shadowy Vale who were standing amidst the men of the face, knew not how to demean themselves, and some of them ran forth into the field, and leapt for joy, tossing their swords into the air, and catching them by the hilts as they fell, and amidst it all the woodlanders now stood silent and moving, as men abiding the word of onset. As for that brother and sister, the sunbeam flushed red all over her face, and pressed her hands to her bosom, and then the passion of tears overmastered her, and her breast heaved, and the tears gushed out of her eyes, and her body was shaken with weeping. But Folkmite sat still, looking straight before him, his eyes glittering, his teeth set, his right hand clutching hard at the hilts of the sword, which lay naked across his knees, and the bride who stood clad in her bejembed and glittering water-array in the forefront of the men of the stear, now onto the seats of the chieftains, beheld Folkmite, and her face flushed and brightened, and still she looked upon him. The alderman's face was of one pleased and proud, yet was its joy shadowed as it were by a cloud of compassion. Face of God sat, like the very image of the war-god, and stirred not, nor looked toward the sunbeam, for still the thought of the after-grief of battle, and the death of friends and folk that loved him lay heavy on his heart, for all that it beat wildly at the shouting of men. This Librivoct recording is in the public domain. Of the great Folkmote, atonements given, and a man made sackless. Amidst the clamour up rose the alderman, for it was clear to all men that the Folkmote should beholden at once, and the matters of the war, and the fellowship, and the choosing of the war-leader speedily dealt with, so the alderman fell to hallowing in the Folkmote. He went up to the altar of the gods, and took the gold ring off it, and did it on his arm. Then he drew his sword, and waved it towards the four heirs, and spake, and the noise and shouting fell, and there was silence but for him. Herewith I hallow in this Folkmote of the men of the Dale, and the sheep-coats, and the woodland, in the name of the warrior, and the earth-god, and the fathers of the kindreds. Now let not the peace of the moats be broken. Let not man rise against man, or bear blade or hand, or stick or stone against any. If any man break the peace of the Holy Moat, let him be a man accursed, a wild beast in the holy places, and outcast from home and half, from bed and board, from mead and acre. Not to be hulpen with bread, nor flesh nor wine, nor flax nor wool, nor any cloth, nor with sword nor shield nor axe, nor plowshare, nor with horse nor ox nor ass, with no saddle-beast nor draught-beast, nor with wane nor boat, nor way-leading, nor with fire nor water, nor with any world's wealth. Thus let him who hath cast out man be cast out by man. Now he hallowed in the Folkmote of the men of the Dale, and the sheep-coats and the woodlands. Therewith he waved his sword again toward the Four Ares, and went and sat down in his place. But presently he arose again and said, Now, if man hath ought to say against man, and claimeth boot of any, or would lay guilt on any man's head, let him come forth and declare it, and the judges shall be named, and the case shall be tried this afternoon or tomorrow. Yet first I shall tell you that I, the alderman of the Dale'smen, doomed one iron-face of the house of the face to pay a double fine, for that he drew a sword at the gate-thing of Burgstead with the intent to break the peace thereof. Thou, green-sleeve, bring forth the peace-breakers fine, that iron-face may lay the same on the altar. Then came forth a man from the men of the face, bearing a bag, and he brought it to iron-face, who went up to the altar and poured forth wade gold from the bag thereon, and said, Warden of the Dale, come thou and wait. Nay, quoth the warden, it needeth not, nor man ear doubteth thee, alderman iron-face. A murmur of ye say went up, and none had a word to say against the alderman, but they praised him rather. Also men were eager to hear of the war and the fellowship, and to be done with these petty matters. Then the alderman rose again, and said, Have any man agree against any other of the kindreds of the Dale, or the sheep-cots of the woodlands? None answered or stirred, so after he had waited a while he said, Is there any who have any guilt so lay against the stranger and outlander, being such a man as he deems we can come at? Their at was a stir amongst the men of the fleece of the shepherds, and their ranks opened, and there came forth an ill-favoured lean old man, long-nebbed, blear-eyed, and bent, good with a rusty old sword, but not otherwise armed. And all men knew Penetham, who had been ransacked last autumn. As he came forth it seemed as if his neighbours had been trying to hold him back, but a stout broad-shouldered man, black-haired and red-bearded, made way for the old man, and led him out of the throng, and stood by him. And this man was well armed at all points, and looked a doubty carl. He stood side by side with Penetham, right in front of the men of his house, and looked about him at first somewhat uneasily, as though he were ashamed of his fellow. But though many smiled, none laughed aloud, and they forbore, partly because they knew the man to be a good man, partly because of the solemn tide of the folk-moat, and partly in sooth, because they wished all this to be over, and were as men who had no time for empty mirth. Then said the old man, what would as thou, Penetham? And thou, bristler son of Breitling? Then Penetham began to speak in a high, squeaky voice. Old man, and lord of the folk! But there with all, bristler pulled him back and said, I'm the man who hath taken this quarrel upon me, and have swore upon the holy boar to carry this feud through, and we deem, old man, that if they who slew rusty and ransacked Penetham be not known now, yet they soon may be. As he spake came forth those three men of the shepherds, and the two dalesmen who had sworn with him on the holy boar. Then upstod folk-moat, and came forth into the field, and said, Bristler, son of Breitling, and ye other good men and true! It is but sooth that the ransackers and the slayer may soon be known, and here I declare them unto you. I it was, and none other who slew rusty, and I was the leader of those who ransacked Penetham, and cowed heartsbane of green toffs. As for the slaying of rusty, I slew him because he chased me, and would not forbear, so that I must either slay or be slain, as hath befallen me erewhile, and will befall again me things. As for the ransacking of Penetham, I needed the goods that I took, and he needed them not, since he neither used them nor gave them away, and they being gone, he have lived no worse than a foretime. Now I say, that if ye will take the outlory off me, which, as I hear, ye laid upon me, not knowing me, then will I handle self-doomed to thee. Bristler, if thou wilt bear thy grief to purse, and I will pay thee what thou wilt out of hand. A rift but chance thou wilt call me to home, neither will I go, if thou and I come unslain out of this war. As to the ransacking and cowing of heartsbane, I say that I am sackless therein, because the man is but a ruffler, and a man of violence, and hath cowed many men of the dale, and if ye gain say me, then do I call him to the home, after this war is over. I they him or any man who will take his place before my sword. Then he held his peace, and a man spake to man, and a murmur arose as they said for the more part, that it was a fair and manly offer. But Bristler called his fellows and Penethom to him, and they spake together, and sometimes Penethom's shrill squeak was heard above the deep voice talk of the others, but he was a man that harboured malice. But at last Bristler spake out and said, To all man, we know that thou art a chieftain, and of good will to the men of the dale and their friends, and that want drape thee to the ransacking, and need to the manslaying, and neither the living nor the dead, to whom thou art guilty, that to be called good men. Therefore I will bring the matter to purse, if thou wilt handle me self-dome. Ye even so let it be, quoth folk might, and stepped forward and took Bristler by the hand, and handled him self-dome. Then said Bristler, though rusty was no good man, and though he followed thee to slady, yet was he in his right therein, since he was following up his good man's gear. Therefore shalt thou pay a full blood-white for him, that is to say, the worth of three hundred's in weed-stuff, in what so good's thou wilt's. As for the ransacking of Penethom, he shall deem himself well-paid, if thou give him four hundred's in weed-stuff, for that which thou did's borrow of him. Then Penethom set up his squeak again, but no man harkened to him, and each man said to his neighbour, that it was well doomed of Bristler, and neither too much, nor too little. But folk might bade would want to bring thither to him that which he had borne to the moat, and he brought forth a big sack, and folk might emptied it on the earth, and lo, the silver rings of the slain felons, and they lay in a heap on the green field, and they were the best of silver. Then the elder of the Dalewardens weighed out from the heap the blood-white for Rusty, according to the due measure of the hundred in weed-stuff, and delivered it on to Bristler, and folk might said, draw nigh now, Penethom, and take what thou wilt's of this gear, which I need not, and grudge not at me hence-forward. But Penethom was afraid, and abode where he was, and Bristler laughed, and said, take it, good man, take it, spare not other men's goods as thou dost thine own. And folk might stood by, smiling faintly. So Penethom plucked up a heart, and drew nigh trembling, and took what he durced from that heap, and all that stood by said that he had gotten a full double of what had been awarded to him. But as for him, he went his ways straight from the moat-stead, and made no stay till he had gotten him home, and laid the silver up in a strong coffer, and thereafter he bewailed him sorely that he had not taken the double of that which he took, since none would have said him nigh. When he was gone, the older man arose and said, Thou, says the fines have been paid, duly and freely, according to the dooming of Bristler, set we off the outlawry from folk might and his fellows, and account them to be sackless before us. Then he called for other cases, but no man had ought more to bring forward against any man, either of the kindreds or the strangers. End of chapter thirty-eight Chapter thirty-nine of The Roots of the Mountains by William Morris This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Of the great folk-moat, men take reed of the war-faring, the fellowship and the war-leader, folk might telleth whence his people came, the folk might sundered. Now a great silence fell upon the throng, and they stood as men abiding some new matter. Onto them arose the older man and said, Men of the Dale and ye shepherds and woodlanders, it is well known to you that we have foremen in the wood and beyond it, and now have we gotten sure tidings, that they will not abide at home or in the wood, but are minded to fall upon us at home. Now, therefore, I will not ask you whether you will have peace or war, but with these foremen you may have peace no otherwise saved by war. But if you think with me, three things have you to determine. First, whether you will abide your foes in your own houses, or will go meet them at theirs. Next, whether you will take to you as fellows in arms, a valiant folk of the children of the gods, who are foremen to our foremen, and lastly, what man you will have to be to your war-leader. Now, have been all those here assembled, to speak hereof, any man of them that will, either what they may have conceived in their own minds, or what their kindred may have put into their mouths to speak. Therewith he sat down, and in a little while came forth old hallward of the house of the steer, and stood before the older man and said, Oh, older man, all we say, since war is awake, we will not tarry, but will go to meet our foes while it is yet time. The valiant men of whom thou tellest, to be our fellows, were there but three of them. We know no better war-leader than face of God of the house of the face. Let him lead us. Therewith he went his ways, and next came forth Warwell, and said, The house of the bridge would have face of God for war-leader, these tall men for fellows, and the shortest way to meet the foe, and he went back to his place. Next came Fox of Upton and said, Time presses, a much might be spoken, thus saith the house of the bull, let us go meet the foe, and take these valiant strangers for way-leaders, and face of God for war-leader. And he also went back again. Then came forth two men together, an older man and a young, and the older man's spake as soon as he stood still. The men of the vine bid me say their will. They will not stay at home to have their houses burned over their heads, themselves slain on their own hearths, and their wives hailed off to thrall them. They will take any man for their fellow in arms, who will smite stark strokes on their side. They know face of God, and will leave for Robin for war-leader than any other, and they will follow him wheresoever he leadeth. Thus my kindreth bideth me to say, and I height fork beard of lee. If I live through this war, I shall have lived through five. Therewith he went back to his place, but the young man lifted up his voice and said, to all this I say yea, and so am I bid him by the kindreth of the sickle. I am red beard of the knolls, the son of my father, and he went to his place again. Then came forth stone face and said, thou to the face saith, leaders through the wood or face of God, thou war-leader, and ye warriors of the wolf. I am stone face as men know, and this word hath been given to me by the kindreth, and he took his place again. Then came forth together the three chiefs of the shepherds, to wit, hound under Greenbury, strongeth arm, and the hillia, and strongeth arm, spake for all three, and said, the men of Greenbury, and they of the fleece and the thorn, are of one accord, and bid us say that they are well pleased to have face of God for war-leader, and that they will follow him and the warriors of the wolf, to live or die with them, and that they are ready to go meet the foe at once, and will not sculpt behind the walls of Greenbury. Therewith the three went back again to their places. Then came forth that tall man, that bare the banner of the wolf, when he had given the staff into the hands of him who stood next. He came and stood over against the seats of the chieftains, and for a while he could say no word, but stood struggling with the strong passion of his joy. But at last he lifted his hands aloft, and cried out in a loud voice, Oh war, war, oh death, oh wounding and grief, oh loss of friends and kindred, let all this be rather than the drawing back of meeting hands, and the sundering of yearning hearts. And he went back hastily to his place. But from the ranks of the woodlanders, ran forth a young man and cried out, As is the word of Red Wolf, so is my word, Bearsbane of Carstead, and this is the word which our little fog has put into our mouths, and oh, as our hands may show the meaning of our mouths, the nought else can. Then indeed went up a great shout, though many for bore to cry out, for now were they too much moved for words or sounds. And in special was face of God moved, and he scarce knew which way to look, lest he should break out into sobs and weeping, for of late he had been much among the woodlanders and loved them much. Then all the noise and clamour fell, and it was to men as if they who had come thither afoke had now become a host of war. But once again the alderman rose up and spake, Now have ye here said three things, that we take face of God of the house of the face for our war leader, that we fare under weapons at once against them who would murder us, and that we take the valiant fork of the wolf for our fellows in arms. Therewith he stayed his speech, and this time the shout arose clear and most mighty with the tossing up of swords and the clashing of weapons on shields. Then he said, Now, if any man will speak, here is the war leader, and here is the chief of our new friends, to answer to what so any of the kindred would have answered. Thereon came forth the fiddle, from amongst the men of the sickle, and drew somewhat nigh to the alderman and said, Alderman, we would ask of the war leader if he had devised the manner of our assembling, and the way of our warfareing, and the day of our hosting. More than this I will not ask of him, because we what, that he saw great an assembly, it may be that the foe have some spy of whom we what not. And though this be not likely, yet some folk may babble, therefore it is best for the wise to be wise, everywhere and always. Therefore my read it is, that no man ask any more concerning this, but let it lie with the war leader, to bring us face to face with the foe, as speedily as he may. All men said that this was well counselled, but face of God arose and said, Ye men of the dale, ye shepherds on woodlanders, me seamoth the fiddle hath spoken wisely. Now therefore I answer him and say, that I have so ordered everything, since the gate thing was holding at Burgstead, that we may come face to face with the foremen, by the shortest of roads. Every man shall be duly summoned to the hosting, and if any man fail, let it be accounted a shame to him for ever. A great shout followed on his words, and he sat down again, but Fox of Upton came forth and said, O alderman, we have ye said, the fellowship of the valiant men, who have come to us from out of the waste, but this we have done, not because we have known them, otherwise than by what our kinsmen face of God hath told us concerning them, but because we have seen clearly, that they will be of much avail to us in our warfare. Now therefore, if the tall chieftain who sitteth beside thee, were to do as to wit what he is, and whence he and his had come, it were well, and fame were we thereof. But if he listeth not to tell us, that also shall be well. Then arose Folkmite in his place, but or ever he could open his mouth to speak, the tall red wolf strode forward, bearing with him the banner of the wolf and the sun burst, and came and stood beside him, and the wind ran through the folds of the banner, and rippled it out above the heads of those twain. Then Folkmite spake and said, O men of the dale and the sheep-cots, I will do as ye bid me do, and fame were ye of the story, if every deal ye knew. But long, long were its telling, were I to tell it all, that it bides till the cup of deliverance, ye drink from hall to hall. Like ye, we be of the kindreds, the sons of gods we come, midst the mid-earth's mighty woodland, of old we had our home, but of older time we abided, neath the mountains of the earth, o'er which the sun ariseeth, to wake and woe and mirth. Great were we then and many, but the long days wore us thin, and wore, wherein the winner hath weary work to win, and the woodland wall behind us, ain like ourselves was worn, and the tramp of the hosts of the Foremen, and down its glaze was borne, on the wind that bent our wheat-fields. So in the morn we rose, and left behind the stubble, and the autumn fruited close, and went our ways to the westward, nor turned aback to see the glare of our burning houses, rise over break and tree, but the fore was fierce and speedy, nor long they tarried there, and through the woods of battle our laden wanes must fare, and the sons of the wolf were minnished, and the maids of the wolf waxed few, as amidst the victory singing we fared the wild wood through. So saith the ancient story, that west and west we went, and in many a day of battle we had him break on bent, whilst here a while we tarried, and there we hastened on, and still a battle harvest, for many a fork we won. Of the tale of the days who wotteth, of the years what man can tell, while the sons of the wolf were wandering, and knew not where to dwell, was at last we clon the mountains, and Mickel was our toil, as high the spear-wood clambered, of the drivers of the spoil. And tangled were the passes, and the beacons flared behind, and the horns of gathering onset came up upon the wind. So saith the ancient story, that we stood in a mounting cleft, where the ways and the fallies sundered, to the right hand and the left. There in the place of sundering, all woeful was the reed, we knew no land before us, and behind was heavy need, as the sword cleaves through the bernie, so there the mountain flank, cleft through the Godkin's people, and near again we drank, the wine of war together, or feasted side by side, in the feast hall of the warrior, on the fruit of the battle-tide. For there we turned and sundered, on to the north we went, and up along the waters, and the clattering stony bent, and on to the south and the sheep-cuts, down went our sisters' sons, and all for the years passed over, since we saw those valiant ones. He ceased and laid his right hand on the banner-staff a little, below the left hand of red wolf, and men were so keen to hear each word that he spake, that there was no cry nor sound of voices when he had done, only the sound of the rippling banner of the wolf over the heads of those twain. The sunbeam bowed her head now, and wept silently, but the bride she had drawn her sword and held it upright in her hand before her, and the sun smote fire from out of it. Then it was but a little while before red wolf lifted up his voice and sang, ah, can I wonder, oh folk of the field, how there that did sunder stand shield beside shield! Lo, the old wanton manner by fearless folk made, on the bowl of the banner the brother's hands laid. Lo, hear the token of what hath be did, grown whole is the broken, found that which was hid, now one way we follow what air shall befall, as seeketh to swallow his yesteryear's hall. Seldom folk fewer to fight stead hath fared, near have man trueer the battle-read beard. Grey looks now I carry, and old I am grown, nor looked I to tarry to meet with mine own, for we who remember the deeds of old days, were not but the ember of battle ablaze. For what man might aid us, what deed and what day should come where weird laid as aloof from the way? What do man save that other of twain rent apart, our war-friend, our brother, the peace of our heart? Then hark, and the wonder, how shield beside shield, the twain that did sunder, went down to the field. Now, when he had made an end, men could no longer forbear the shout, and it went up into the heavens, and was born by the west wind, down the dale, to the ears of the stay-at-home women and men, unmeet to go abroad, and it quickened their blood, and the spirits within them as they heard it, and they smiled and were faint, for they knew that their kin's folk were glad. But when there was quiet on the moat field again, folk might spake again, and said, It is sooth that my brother saith, and that now again we wend, all the sons of the wolf together, till the trouble have an end. But as for that tale of the ancients, it saith that we who went to the northward, climbed and stumbled, or many a stony bent, till we happed on that isle of the wasteland, and the grass of the shadowy veil, where we dwelt till we throw over little, and felt our might avail. Then we fared abroad from the shadow, and the little lighted hold, and the increase fell to the valiant, and the spoil to the battle-bold, and never a man gain said us, with the weapons in our hands, and in Silverdale, the happy we got us life and lands. So wore the years, o'er wealthy, and me seemeth that you know, how we sowed and reaped destruction, and the day of the overthrow, how we leaned on the staff we had broken, and put our lives in the hand of those whom we had vanquished, and the feeble of the land. And these were the stone of stumbling, and the burden not to be borne, when the battle-blast fell on us, and our day was overworn. Thus then did our wealth beret us, and left us wise and sad, and to you, bold men, it's forloth once more to make us glad. If so, your hearts are bidding, and ye deem the deed of worth. Such were we, what we shall be, it is yours to say henceforth. He said furthermore, How great we have been, I've told you already, and ye shall see for yourselves how little we be now. Is it enough, and will ye have us for friends and brothers? How say ye? They answered with shout upon shout, so that all the place and the wild wood round was full of the voice of their crying. But when the clamour fell, then spake the alderman, and said, Friend and chieftain of the wolf, thou maest hear by this shouting of the people, that we have no mind to nay say how ye say, and know that it is not our use and manner to seek the strong for friends, and to thrust aside the weak, but rather to choose for our friends them who are of like mind to us, men in whom we put our trust. From henceforth then there is brotherhood between us, we are yours and ye are ours, and let this endure for ever. Then were all men full of joy, and now at last the battle seemed at hand, and the peace beyond the battle. Then men brought the hallowed beasts, all garlanded with flowers into the doomering, and there were they slain and offered up unto the gods, to it the warrior, the earth god, and the fathers. And thereafter was solemn feast-holden on the field of the folk-moats, and all men were feign and merry. Nevertheless not all men abode there the feast through, for or ever the afternoon was well worn, where many men wending along the portway eastward toward the upper dale, each man in his war-gear, and with a script hung about him. And these were they who were bound for the tristing-place, and the journey over the waist. So the folk-moats were sundered, and men went to their houses, and there abode in peace the time of their summoning, since they wotted well that the hosting was afoot. But as for the woodlanders, who were at the moat-stead with all their folk, women, children, and old men, they went not back again to Karlstead, but prayed the neighbours of the middle dale to suffer them to abide there a while, which they yea said with a good will. So the woodlanders tilted themselves in, the more part of them, down in the meadows below the moat-stead, along either side of Wildlake's way. But the ancient folk and some of the women and children, the neighbours would have into their houses, and the rest they furnished with the victual, and all that they needed without price, looking upon them as their very guests. For indeed they deemed that they could see that these men would never return to Karlstead, but would abide with the men of the wolf in Silverdale once it were won. And this they deemed but meet and write, yet were they sorry thereof, for the woodlanders were well-beloved of all the dalesmen, and now that they had gotten to know that they were come of so noble a kindred, they were better-beloved yet, and more looked upon. Chapter 40 Of The Roots of the Mountains by William Morris This Librivox recording is in the public domain of the hosting in Shadowy Vale. It was on the evening of the fourth day after the folk-moat that they came through the waste to the rocky edge of Shadowy Vale, a band of some fifteen score of men at arms, and with them a multitude of women and children and old men, some afoot, some riding on asses and bullocks, and with them were sump to asses, and neat laden with household goods, and a few goats and kind. This was the whole folk of the woodlanders come to the hosting in Shadowy Vale, and the home of the children of the wolf. Their leaders of the way were Woodfather and Woodwant, and two other carls of Shadowy Vale, and Red Wolf the Tall, and a Bearsbane and Wargrove were the captains and chieftains of their company. Thus they entered into the narrow pass of Forsed, which was the ingate to the Vale from the waste, and little by little, its dimness swallowed up their long line. As they went by the place where the lowering of the rock wall gave a glimpse of the valley, they looked down into it, as face of God had done, but not much change was there in little time. There was the black wall of crags on the other side, stretching down to the gill of the great force. There ran the deep green waters of the shivering flood, but the grass which face of God had seen naked of everything but a few kind, thereon now the tents of men stood thick. Their hearts swelled within them as they beheld it, but they forbore the shout and the cry till they should be well within the Vale, and so went down silently into the darkness. But as their eyes caught that dim image of the wolf on the wall of the pass, man pointed it out to man, and not a few turned and kissed it hurriedly, and to them it seemed that many a kiss had been laid on that dear token since the days of old, and that the hard stone had been worn away by the fervent lips of men, and that the air of the murk place yet quivered with the vows sworn over the sword-blade. But down through the dark they went, and so came on to the stony scree at the end of the pass and into the Vale, and the whole folk saved the three chieftains, flowed over it and stood about it down on the level grass of the Vale. But those three stood yet at the top of the scree, bearing the war-signs of the shaft and the spear, and betwixt them the banner of the wolf and the sunburst, newly displayed to the winds of shadowy Vale. Up and down the Vale they looked, and saw before the tents of men the old familiar banners of Burgdale rising and falling in the evening wind. But amidst of the doom-ring was pitched a great banner, whereon was done the image of the wolf with red-gaping jaws on a field of green, and about him stood other banners to it, the silver arm on a red field, the red hand on a white field, and on green fields both, the golden bushel and the ragged sword. All about the plain, shone-glittering war-gear of men, as they moved hither and thither, and a stream of folk began at once to draw toward the scree to look on those newcomers. And amidst the helmed Burgdalus and the white-coated shepherds went the tall men of the wolf, bare-headed and unarmed, safe for their swords, mingled with the fair-strong women of the kindred, treading barefoot the soft grass of their own Vale. Presently there was a great throng gathered round about the woodlanders, and each man as he joined it, waved hand or weapon toward them, and the joy of their welcome sent a confused clamor through the air. Then forth from the throng stepped Folkmite, unarmed, save his sword, and behind him was face of God, in his war-gear, save his helm, and in hand with the sun-beam, who was clad in her goodly flowered green kirtle, her feet naked like her sisters of the kindred. Then Folkmite cried aloud, A full and free greeting to our brothers, well be ye, O sons of ancient fathers, and to-day i.e. the dearer to us, because we see that ye are brought as a gift, to it, your wives and children, and your grandsires, un-meets for war. By this token we see how great is your trust in us, and that it is your meaning never to sunder from us again. Oh, well be ye, well be ye. Then spake Red Wolf, and said, Ye sons of the wolf, who are parted from us of all time in that cleft of the mountains. It is our very selves that we give on to you, and these are a part of ourselves. How then should we leave them behind us? Bear witness, O men of Burgdale and the sheep-cuts, that we have become one Folk with the men of shadowy Vale, never to be sundered again. Then all that multitude shouted with a loud voice, and when the shout had died away, Folkmite spake again. Oh, warriors of the sundering, here shall your wives and children abide, while we go a little journey to rejoice our hearts with the hard hand-play, and take to us that which we have missed, and tomorrow morn is appointed for this same journey, unless ye be over foot weary with the ways of the waste. Red Wolf smiled as he answered, This ye say in jest, brother, for ye may see that our day's journey hath not been over much for our old men. How then should it weary those who may yet bear sword? We are ready for the road and eager for the hand-play. This is well, said Folkmite, and what was to be looked for? Therefore, brother, do ye and your councilmates come straight way to the hall of the wolf, wherein, after ye have eaten and drunken, shall we take council with our brethren of Bergdale and the sheep-cups, so this all may be ordered for battle? Said Red Wolf, Good is that, if we must need a bite till tomorrow, for verily we came not hither to eat and drink and rest our bodies, but it must be as ye will have it. Then the sunbeam left the hand of face of God, and came forward, and held out both her palms to the woodland folk, and spake in a voice that was heard afar, though it were a woman's, so clear and sweet it was. And she said, O warriors of the sundering, ye have been not needed in the hall, and ye, our sisters, with your little ones and your fathers, come now to us and down to the tents which we have arrayed for you, and there think for a little, that we are all at our very home that we long for, and have yet to win, and be ye merry with us and make us merry. Therewith she stepped forward, daintily, and entered into their throng, and took an old man of the woodlanders by the hand, and kissed his cheek, and led him away, and the coming rest seemed sweet to him, and then came other women of the veil, kind and fair and smiling, and led away, some an old mother of the woodlanders, some a young wife, some a pair of lads, and not a few forsooth kissed and embraced the stark warriors, and went away with them toward the tents, which stood along the side of the shivering flood, where it was at its quietest, for there was the grass the softest and most abundant. There on the green grass were tables arrayed, and lamps were hung above them on spears, to be lit and when the daylight should fail, and the best of the victual which the veil could give was spread on the boards, along with wine and dainties, bought in Silverdale, or on the edges of the westland with sword strokes and arrow flight. There then they feasted and were merry, and the sunbeam and bome, and the other women of the veil served them at table, and were very blithe with them, caressing them with soft words, and with clipping and kissing, as folk who were grown exceeding dear to them, so that the eve of battle was softer and sweeter to them than any hour of their life. With these feasters were godswain and spearfist of the delivered thralls of Silverdale, as glad as glad might be, but Wolfstone their eldest was gone with Dalek to the council in the hall. The men of Burgdale and the shepherds feasted other where in all content, nor lacked folk of the veil to serve them, amongst the men of the face with the ten delivered thralls, who had heart to meet their masters in arms. Seven of them were of Rosdale, and three of Silverdale. The bride was with her kindred of the steer, with whom were many men of shadowy veil, and she served her friends and fellows clad in her war-gear, save Helm and Horberg, bearing herself as one who is serving dear guests. And men equalled her for her beauty to the gods of the high place, and the choosers of the slain, and they who had not beheld her before marveled at her, and her loveliness held all men's hearts in a net of desire, so that they forbore their meat to gaze upon her. And if perchance her hand touched some young man, or her cheek or sweet breathed mouth came night to his face, he became bewildered, and whisked not where he was nor what to do. Yet was she as lowly and simple of speech and demeanour as if she were a goose-herd of fourteen winters. In the hall was a goodly company, and all the leaders of the folk were therein, and folk-mights and the war-leader, sitting in the midst of those stone seats on the dais. There then they agreed on the whole ordering of the battle, and the wending of the host, as shall be told later on. And this matter was longer doing, and when it was done, men went to their places to sleep, for the night was well worn. But when men had departed and all was still, folk-mights, light clad them without a weapon, left the hall, and walked briskly toward the nether end of the vale. He passed by all the tents, the last whereof were of the house of the steer, and came to a place where there was a great rock rising straight up from the plain like sheaves of black staves, standing close together. And it was called Staffstone, and tales of the elves had been told concerning it, so that stone-face had beheld its gladly the day before. The moon was just shining into shadowy vale, and the grass was bright, wheresoever the shadows of the high cliffs were not. And the face of Staffstone shone bright gray as folk-mights came within sight of it. And he beheld someone sitting at the base of the rock, and as he drew nigher he saw that it was a woman, and knew her for the bride. For he had prayed her to abide him there that night, because it was night of the tents of the house of the steer, and his heart was glad as he drew night to her. She sat quietly on a fragment of the black rock, clad as she had been all day, in her glittering kirtle, but without horberk or helm, a wreath of wind-flowers about her head, her feet crossed over each other, her hands laid palm uppermost in her lap. She moved not as he drew nigh, but said in a gentle voice when he was close to her, Chief of the Wolf, great warrior, thou wouldst speak with me, and good it is that friends should talk together on the eve of battle, when they may never meet alive again. He said, My talk shall not be long, for thou and I both must sleep tonight, since there is work to hand tomorrow. Now, since as thou sayest, O fairest of women, we may never meet again alive, I ask thee now at this hour, when we both live and are near to one another, to suffer me to speak of my love of thee and desire for thee. Surely thou, who art the sweetest of all things, the gods and the kindreds have made, will not gain say me this. She said very sweetly, yet smiling, Brother of my father's sons, how can I gain say thee thy speech? Nay, as thou not said it, what more canst thou add to it, that we'll have fresh meaning to mine ears? He said, Thou sayest sooth, might I then but kiss thine hand? She said no longer smiling. Yea, surely, even so may all men do who can be called my friends, and thou art much my friend. He took her hand and kissed it, and held it thereafter, nor did she draw it away. The moon shone brightly on them, but by its light he could not see if she reddened, but he deemed that her face was troubled. Then he said, It were better for me if I might kiss thy face, and take thee in mine arms. Then said she, This only shall a man do with me, when I long to do the like with him. And since thou art so much my friend, I will tell thee that as for this longing I have it not. Be think thee what a little while it is since the lack of another man's love grieved me sorely. The time is short, said Folkmite, if we tell up the hours thereof, but in that short space have many a things be did. She said, Dost thou know? Canst thou guess? How sorely ashamed I went amongst my people. I durst look no man in the face for the aching of mine heart, which me thought all might see through my face. I knew it well, he said, Yet of me were thou not ashamed, but a little while ago, when thou didst tell me of thy grief. She said, True it is, and thou wert kind to me. Thou didst become a dear friend to me, me thought. And wilt thou hurt a dear friend? said he. Oh no, she said, if I might do otherwise, yet how if I might not choose? Shall there be no forgiveness for me then? He answered nothing, and still he held her hand that strove not to be gone from his, and she cast down her eyes. Then he spake in a while. My friend, I've been thinking of thee and of me, and now harken, if thou wilt declare that thou feelest no sweetness embracing thine heart, when I say that I desire thee sorely, as now I say it, or when I kiss thine hand, as now I kiss it, or when I pray thee to suffer me to cast mine arms about thee, and kiss thy face, as now I pray it. If thou wilt say this, then will I take thee by the hand straightway, and lead thee to the tents of the house of the steer, and say farewell to thee till the battle is over. Canst thou say this out of the truth of thine heart? She said, What then, if I cannot say this word? What then? But he answered nothing, and she sat still a little while, and then arose and stood before him, looking him in the eyes, and said, I cannot say it. Then he caught her in his arms and strained her to him, and then kissed her lips and her face again and again, and she strove not with him. But at last she said, Yet after all this, shalt thou lead me back to my folk straightway, and when the battle is done, if both we are living, then shall we speak more thereof. So he took her hand and led her on toward the tents of the steer, and for a while he spake naught, for he doubted himself what he should say, but at last he spake. Now this is better for me than if it had not been, whether I live or whether I die. Yet thou hast not said that thou lovest me and desirest me. Will thou compel me? she said. Tonight I may not say it. Who shall say what words my lips shall fashion when we stand together, victorious in Silverdale? Then indeed may the time seem long from now. He said, Yay! True is that! Yet once again I say that so measured long and long is the time, since first I saw thee in Burgdale before thou knewest me. Yet now I will not bicker with thee, for be sure that I am glad at heart, and lo, you, our feet have brought us to the tents of thy people. All good, go with thee. And with thee, sweet friend, she said. Then she lingered a little, turning her head toward the tents, and then turned her face toward him, and laid her hand on his neck, and drew his head down to her, and kissed his cheek, and therewith swiftly and lightly departed from him. Now the night's war and the morning came, and face of God was abroad very early in the morning, as his custom was. And he washed the night from off him in the carl's bath of the shivering flood, and then went round through the encampments of the host, and saw none stirring save here and there the last watchman of the night. He spake with one or two of these, and then went up to the head of the veil, where was the pass that led to Silverdale. And there he saw the watch, and spake with them, and they told him that none had had yet come forth from the pass, and he bade them to blow the horn of warning, to rouse up the host, as soon as the messengers came thence. For forerunners had been sent up the pass, and had been set to hold watch at diverse places therein, to pass on the word from place to place. Then went face of God back toward the hall, but when he was yet some way from it, he saw a slender glittering warrior come forth from the door thereof, who stood for a moment, looking round about, and then came likely and swiftly toward him. And lo! it was the sunbeam, with a long hoarburg over her curtle, falling below her knees, a helm on her head, and plated shoes on her feet. She came up to him, and laid her hand to his cheek, and the golden locks of his head, for he was bare-headed, and she said to him, smiling, "'Goldman, thou bidest me bear arms, and folk might also constrain me there, too. Lo thou!' said face of God, folk might his wise then, even as I am, and forsooth as thou art, for we think thee, if the bow drawn at a venture should speed the eyeless shaft against thy breast, and send me forth a wanderer from my folk, for how could I bear the sight of the fair dale, and no hope to see thee again therein?' She said, "'The heart is light within me today. Deem us thou that this is strange, and us thou call to mind that which thou spake us the other day, that it was of no avail to stand in the doom-ring of the folk, and bear witness against ourselves. This will I not. This is no light-mindedness that thou beholdest in me, but the valiancy that the fathers have set in mine heart. Deem not, O Goldman, fear not, that we shall die before they died the bride-bed for us.' He would have kissed her mouth, but she put him away with her hand, and doffed her helm, and laid it on the grass, and said, "'This is not the last time that thou shalt kiss me, Goldman, my dear. And yet I long for it as if it were, so high as the fathers have raised me up this morn, above fear and sadness.' He said not, but drew her to him, and wonder so moved him, that he looked long and closely at her face before he kissed her, and for sooth he could find no blemish in it. It was as if it were, but new come from the smithy of the gods, and exceeding longing took hold of him. But even as their lips met, from the head of the veil came the voice of the great horn, and it was answered straightway by the watchers all down the tents, and presently arose the shouts of men and the clash of weapons, as folk armed themselves, and laughed at their with, for most men were battle-merry, and the cries of women shrilly clear, as they hastened about, busy over the morning meal before the departure of the host. But face of God said softly, still caressing the sunbeam, and she him, thus then we depart from the valley of the shadows, but as thou saidst when first we met therein, there shall be no sundering of thee and me, but thou shalt go down with me to the battle.' And he led her by the hand into the hall of the wolf, and there they ate a morsel, and thereafter, face of God tarried not, but busied himself along with folk might and the other chieftains, in arraying the host for departure.