atmosphere is very different from our own.
This story is a true picture of life, in that it sets forth the doings
of men and women in the power of the master passion. And so for the
purposes of literature this poem is not Norse, or rather, it is more
than Norse, it is universal. Now and then, to be sure, the displaced
Norse ideals are set forth in the poem, but in such wise that we almost
regret that the old order has passed away. The Wanderer who tells the
tale assures his listeners of the truth of it in these last words of the
interlude between "The Story of Rhodope" and "The Lovers of Gudrun":

Know withal that we
Have ever deemed this tale as true to be,
As though those very Dwellers in Laxdale,
Risen from the dead had told us their own tale;
Who for the rest while yet they dwelt on earth
Wearied no God with prayers for more of mirth
Than dying men have; nor were ill-content
Because no God beside their sorrow went
Turning to flowery sward the rock-strewn way,
Weakness to strength, or darkness into day.
Therefore, no marvels hath my tale to tell,
But deals with such things as men know too well;
All that I have herein your hearts to move,
Is but the seed and fruit of bitter love.

It is aside from our purpose to tell this story here. The more we study
this marvelous work, the more it is impressed upon us that in the reign
of love all men and all literatures are one. To the Englishman this
description of an Iceland maiden is no stranger than it was to the men
who sat about the spluttering fire in the Icelander's hall. It is the
form of Gudrun that is here described:

That spring was she just come to her full height,
Low-bosomed yet she was, and slim and light,
Yet scarce might she grow fairer from that day;
Gold were the locks wherewith the wind did play,
Finer than silk, waved softly like the sea
After a three days' calm, and to her knee
Wellnigh they reached; fair were the white hands laid
Upon the door posts where the dragons played;
Her brow was smooth now, and a smile began
To cross her delicate mouth, the snare of man.

(_Earthly Paradise_, Vol. II, p. 247.)

Not less accustomed are we to such heroes as Kiartan:

And now in every mouth was Kiartan's name,
And daily now must Gudrun's dull ears bear
Tales of the prowess of his youth to hear,
While in his cairn forgotten lay her l