Then, too, despite the accident of death, I cannot go from here against my will.

THORGERD.

You shall not die ere I have done with you; And death shall only come by suffering Until you are too feeble even to suffer.

BLANID.

The sound of death is ever in mine ears, Monotonous as the night's infinity Wherein I was once born where salt winds sweep The wailing of the waters of the West.

I die, but you can ne'er have done with me.

THORGERD, _the porridge being made._ Come, drudge, lift off the pot and fill the bowls.

BLANID, _having filled two bowls._ The pot is empty.

THORGERD. But the bowls are full.

HIALTI.

Now give the la.s.s some supper; fill her bowl.

THORGERD, _pouring milk over the porridge._ There's but enough for two; I'll make no more.

Here, take the pot and sc.r.a.pe it at the quern.

_HIALTI and THORGERD draw stools to the table; BLANID carries the pot to the outhouse and returns to the quern; supper proceeds in silence for a few moments, then HIALTI rises and offers his bowl to BLANID._

HIALTI.

Share with me, la.s.s; I need no more to-night.

_Before BLANID can taste the porridge THORGERD strikes the bowl from her hand._

HIALTI, _indignantly, as he reaches to THORGERD'S bowl._ She shall have yours; go you and make us more ...

_He is interrupted by a distant wailing which is heard through the storm._

THE VOICE.

Ohey! Ohey! Ohohey!

BLANID.

Master, I hear one calling in the night.

HIALTI, _in a subdued voice._ It is the wind across the chimney-slates.

THE VOICE.

Ohey! Ohohey!

BLANID.

Master, a man is calling in the night.

HIALTI.

An owl, storm-beaten, drowns down the long mere.

THE VOICE, _sounding nearer on a gust of wind._ Ohohey! Ohohey!

BLANID.

Master, one lost is helpless in the night.

THORGERD, _gently and with an eager smile._ Ay, la.s.s, good la.s.s; go, la.s.s, and seek for him-- Maybe he sinks amid the marshy reeds; Bring him to warmth and supper and a bed.

I'll shut the door; the light will only daze you.

HIALTI, _leaping to the door in front of BLANID, and setting his back to it._ No, no; back, girl, get back. (_To THORGERD._) You murderess, You know it is the Crier of the Ford, Who wakens when the clashing waters rise And the thick night is choked with level rain.

He is not seen; he was not born; he gathers His bodiless being from the treacherous tarn.

His aged crying gropes about the storm To snare the spent wayfarer to the ford, Or draw some pitiful helper to the ford, And drown them where the unknown water swirls And strangle them with long brown water-weed: He seeks their souls for his old soul to feed on, Because it has no body to nourish it.

THORGERD, _hastily yet sullenly._ How should I know?

_She grips BLANID'S shoulder and hurries her to the outhouse._

Get in with you to your straw.

_She thrusts her into the outhouse and shuts the door upon her; then she turns to HIALTI._

Fool, now I know you love her behind your heart.

HIALTI.

I have no mind to waste a half-spent thrall To prove I love you; and to buy another Would need more money than eight red-polled stirks.

THORGERD.

Choose between her and me; if you take her, I take the land.

HIALTI. I love you overmuch To set you equally against a thrall.

THORGERD.

What, do I touch you when I touch your fields?

HIALTI.

To-morrow I must drive the sold ewes home And lead more bedding from the bracken-fell If the storm clears--it is well stacked and dry; So we must be a-stirring by lantern-light, Since now you will not have the la.s.s go with me To milk, but go yourself although three cows Will not let down their milk to you at all, You drag their teats so: waking-time comes soon-- Best get to bed.

THORGERD.

And leave you to go to your straw's wench?

HIALTI, _taking a rushlight in his hand._ Here are enough of your unfaithful words; I'll alter this to-morrow.

THORGERD. Ay, to-morrow.

_HIALTI enters the sleeping-chamber; after watching the door close upon him, THORGERD, her hands clenched and her arms rigid, swiftly steps half way toward the outhouse; then, suddenly relaxing into a pause and smiling with tight lips as she shakes her head slightly and sharply, she turns to the table again, doffs her coif and draws her hair down, blows out the remaining rushlight, and follows HIALTI into the sleeping-chamber._

_Henceforth the cottage is only lit by the ever-dying fire. A long, empty silence ensues, broken only by the tumult of the storm and the tinkle of the sinking embers._

_Then the outhouse door opens slowly and from it BLANID steps listeningly across the house, in front of the hearth, to the door of the sleeping-chamber, remaining there for a little time with her ear against the door-boards; then she returns noiselessly across the house, behind the hearth, pausing near the house door._

BLANID, _in a hushed voice._ If day were only darkness melting down From darkness into darkness like this rain, Lost ere 'tis known, then I might always sleep And sleep and dream I was a queen once more-- She does not know I was a jewelled queen, For so I spoil her of new heights of joy In which she might for haughtiness fondle me.

O, I would sleep in that old Crier's arms, Enduring silence harder than all else, A mote shut into one cold, kneaded eyelid Of the dead mere; and dream into the wind, And cling to stars lest I should slip through s.p.a.ce; And dream I am the body of him I love, Who yields me only kindness, never love-- O me, that misery of hopeless kindness.