as a salmon is like a horse-leech. Heroes, will
you hear a saga?'

'If it is a cool one,' said Agilmund; 'about ice, and pine-trees, and
snowstorms, I shall be roasted brown in three days more.'

'Oh,' said the Amal, 'that we were on the Alps again for only two hours,
sliding down those snow-slopes on our shields, with the sleet whistling
about our ears! That was sport!'

'To those who could keep their seat,' said Goderic. 'Who went head over
heels into a glacier-crack, and was dug out of fifty feet of snow, and
had to be put inside a fresh-killed horse before he could be brought to
life?'

'Not you, surely,' said Pelagia. 'Oh, you wonderful creature! what
things you have done and suffered!'

'Well,' said the Amal, with a look of stolid self-satisfaction, 'I
suppose I have seen a good deal in my time, eh?'

'Yes, my Hercules, you have gone through your twelve labours, and saved
your poor little Hesione after them all, when she was chained to the
rock, for the ugly sea-monsters to eat; and she will cherish you, and
keep you out of scrapes now, for her own sake;' and Pelagia threw her
arms round the great bull-neck, and drew it down to her.

'Will you hear my saga?' said Wulf impatiently.

'Of course we will,' said the Amal; 'anything to pass the time.'

'But let it be about snow,' said Agilmund.

'Not about Alruna-wives?'

'About them, too,' said Goderic; 'my mother was one, so I must needs
stand up for them.'

'She was, boy. Do you be her son. Now hear, Wolves of the Goths!'

And the old man took up his little lute, or as he would probably have
called it, 'fidel,' and began chanting to his own accompaniment.

Over the camp fires Drank I with heroes, Under the Donau bank Warm in
the snow-trench, Sagamen heard I there, Men of the Longbeards, Cunning
and ancient, Honey-sweet-voiced. Scaring the wolf-cub, Scaring the
horn-owl out, Shaking the snow-wreaths Down from the pine-boughs, Up
to the star-roof Rang out their song. Singing how Winil men Over the
icefloes Sledging from Scanland on Came unto Scoring; Singing of Gambara
Freya's beloved. Mother of Ayo Mother of Ibor. Singing of Wendel men,
Ambri and Assi; How to the Winilfolk Went they with war-words-- 'Few are
ye, strangers, And many are we; Pay us now toll and fee, Clothyarn, and
rings, and beeves; Else at the raven's meal Bide the sharp bill's doom.'

Clutching the dwarfs' work then, Clutching the bullock's shell, Girding
gray iron on, Forth fared th