hen said the Hall-Sun, speaking softly amidst the hush of the camp:

"I have said that the minutes of this night are dear, and they are
passing swiftly; and it may be that thou wilt have much to say and to do
before the host is astir with the dawning. So come thou with me a little
way, that thou mayst hear of new tidings, and think what were best to do
amidst them."

And without more ado she took him by the hand and led him forth, and he
went as he was led, not saying a word. They passed out of the camp into
the wood, none hindering, and went a long way where under the
beech-leaves there was but a glimmer of the moonlight, and presently
Thiodolf's feet went as it were of themselves; for they had hit a path
that he knew well and over-well.

So came they to that little wood-lawn where first in this tale Thiodolf
met the Wood-Sun; and the stone seat there was not empty now any more
than it was then; for thereon sat the Wood-Sun, clad once more in her
glittering raiment. Her head was sunken down, her face hidden by her
hands; neither did she look up when she heard their feet on the grass,
for she knew who they were.

Thiodolf lingered not; for a moment it was to him as if all that past
time had never been, and its battles and hurry and hopes and fears but
mere shows, and the unspoken words of a dream. He went straight up to
her and sat down by her side and put his arm about her shoulders, and
strove to take her hand to caress it; but she moved but little, and it
was as if she heeded him not. And the Hall-Sun stood before them and
looked at them for a little while; and then she fell to speech; but at
the first sound of her voice, it seemed that the Wood-Sun trembled, but
still she hid her face. Said the Hall-Sun:

"Two griefs I see before me in mighty hearts grown great;
And to change both these into gladness out-goes the power of fate.
Yet I, a lonely maiden, have might to vanquish one
Till it melt as the mist of the morning before the summer sun.
O Wood-Sun, thou hast borne me, and I were fain indeed
To give thee back thy gladness; but thou com'st of the Godhead's seed,
And herein my might avails not; because I can but show
Unto these wedded sorrows the truth that the heart should know
Ere the will hath wielded the hand; and for thee, I can tell thee
nought
That thou hast not known this long while; thy will and thine hand have
wrought,
And the man that thou lovest shall l