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.