he gained the threshold, the old man watching at the door smote him
through the hams, and there, half dead, he tottered and fell. For the
smiter thought he ought carefully to avoid lending his illustrious hands
to the death of a vile cinder-blower, and considered that ignominy would
punish his shameless passion worse than death. Thus some men think
that he who suffers misfortune is worse punished than he who is slain
outright. Thus it was brought about, that the maiden, who had never had
parents to tend her, came to behave like a woman of well-trained nature,
and did the part, as it were, of a zealous guardian to herself. And when
Starkad, looking round, saw that the household sorrowed over the late
loss of their master, he heaped shame on the wounded man with more
invective, and thus began to mock:

"Why is the house silent and aghast? What makes this new grief? Or where
now rest that doting husband whom the steel has just punished for his
shameful love? Keeps he still aught of his pride and lazy wantonness?
Holds he to his quest, glows his lust as hot as before? Let him while
away an hour with me in converse, and allay with friendly words my
hatred of yesterday. Let your visage come forth with better cheer; let
not lamentation resound in the house, or suffer the faces to become
dulled with sorrow.

"Wishing to know who burned with love for the maiden, and was deeply
enamoured of my beloved ward, I put on a cap, lest my familiar face
might betray me. Then comes in that wanton smith, with lewd steps,
bending his thighs this way and that with studied gesture, and likewise
making eyes as he ducked all ways. His covering was a mantle fringed
with beaver, his sandals were inlaid with gems, his cloak was decked
with gold. Gorgeous ribbons bound his plaited hair, and a many-coloured
band drew tight his straying locks. Hence grew a sluggish and puffed-up
temper; he fancied that wealth was birth, and money forefathers, and
reckoned his fortune more by riches than by blood. Hence came pride unto
him, and arrogance led to fine attire. For the wretch began to think
that his dress made him equal to the high-born; he, the cinder-blower,
who hunts the winds with hides, and puffs with constant draught, who
rakes the ashes with his fingers, and often by drawing back the bellows
takes in the air, and with a little fan makes a breath and kindles the
smouldering fires! Then he goes to the lap of the girl, and leaning
close, says, `Maide