Then there came into the hall slowly and mournfully three men-at- arms, clad and weaponed like the warriors of his folk, with the image of the Raven on their helms and shields. So Hallblithe refrained him, for besides that this seemed like to be a fair battle of three against three, he doubted some snare, and he determined to look on and abide.
So the champions fell to laying on strokes that were no child's play, though Hallblithe doubted if the edges bit, and it was but a little while before the Champions of the Raven fell one after another before the Wild Men, and folk drew them by the heels out into the buttery.
Then arose great laughter and jeering, and exceeding wroth was Hallblithe; howbeit he refrained him because he remembered all he had to do. But the three Champions of the Sea strode round the hall, tossing up their swords and catching them as they fell, while the horns blew up behind them.
After a while the hall grew hushed, and the chieftain arose and cried: "Bring in now some sheaves of the harvest we win, we lads of the oar and the arrow!" Then was there a stir at the screen doors, and folk pressed forward to see, and, lo, there came forward a string of women, led in by two weaponed carles; and the women were a score in number, and they were barefoot and their hair hung loose and their gowns were ungirt, and they were chained together wrist to wrist; yet had they gold at arm and neck: there was silence in the hall when they stood amidst of the floor.
Then indeed Hallblithe could not refrain himself, and he leapt from his seat and on to the board, and over it, and ran down the hall, and came to those women and looked them in the face one by one, while no man spake in the hall. But the Hostage was not amongst them; nay forsooth, they none of them favoured of the daughters of his people, though they were comely and fair; so that again Hallblithe doubted if this were aught but a feast-hall play done to anger him; whereas there was but little grief in the faces of those damsels, and more than one of them smiled wantonly in his face as he looked on them.
So he turned about and went back to his seat, having said no word, and behind him arose much mocking and jeering; but it angered him little now; for he remembered the rede of the elder and how that he had done according to his bidding, so that he deemed the gain was his. So sprang up talk in the hall betwixt man and man, and folk drank about and were merry, till the chieftain arose again and smote the board with the flat of his sword, and cried out in a loud and angry voice, so that all could hear: "Now let there be music and minstrelsy ere we wend bedward!"
Therewith fell the hubbub of voices, and there came forth three men with great harps, and a fourth man with them, who was the minstrel; and the harpers smote their harps so that the roof rang therewith, and the noise, though it was great, was tuneable, and when they had played thus a little while, they abated their loudness somewhat, and the minstrel lifted his voice and sang:
The land lies black With winter's lack, The wind blows cold Round field and fold;
All folk are within, And but weaving they win.
Where from finger to finger the shuttle flies fast, And the eyes of the singer look fain on the cast, As he singeth the story of summer undone And the barley sheaves hoary ripe under the sun.
Then the maidens stay The light-hung sley, And the shuttles bide By the blue web's side, While hand in hand With the carles they stand.
But ere to the measure the fiddles strike up, And the elders yet treasure the last of the cup, There stand they a-hearkening the blast from the lift, And e'en night is a-darkening more under the drift.
There safe in the hall They bless the wall, And the roof o'er head, Of the valiant stead;
And the hands they praise Of the olden days.
Then through the storm's roaring the fiddles break out, And they think not of warring, but cast away doubt, And, man before maiden, their feet tread the floor, And their hearts are unladen of all that they bore.
But what winds are o'er-cold For the heart of the bold?
What seas are o'er-high For the undoomed to die?
Dark night and dread wind, But the haven we find.
Then ashore mid the flurry of stone-washing surf!
Cloud-hounds the moon worry, but light lies the turf;
Lo the long dale before us! the lights at the end, Though the night darkens o'er us, bid whither to wend.
Who beateth the door By the foot-smitten floor?
What guests are these From over the seas?
Take shield and sword For their greeting-word.
Lo, lo, the dance ended! Lo, midst of the hall The fallow blades blended! Lo, blood on the wall!
Who liveth, who dieth? O men of the sea, For peace the folk crieth; our masters are ye.
Now the dale lies grey At the dawn of day;
And fair feet pass O'er the wind-worn grass;
And they turn back to gaze On the roof of old days.
Come tread ye the oaken-floored hall of the sea!
Be your hearts yet unbroken; so fair as ye be, That kings are abiding unwedded to gain The news of our riding the steeds of the main.
Much shouting and laughter arose at the song's end; and men sprang up and waved their swords above the cups, while Hallblithe sat scowling down on their merriment. Lastly arose the chieftain and called out loudly for the good-night cup, and it went round and all men drank.
Then the horn blew for bed, and the chieftains went to their chambers, and the others went to the out-bowers or laid them down on the hall-floor, and in a little while none stood upright thereon. So Hallblithe arose, and went to the shut-bed appointed for him, and laid him down and slept dreamlessly till the morning.
