That was his first idea--and by
the decree of the people the fugitives were thus divided. But--some one
else--a friend--counselled him not to hide you in the swamps, but--on
the Holy Mountain."

"You belong to the western band--on the mountain."

Adalo made no reply.

"You gave him that counsel, Adalo!"

"I do not deny it; you know that I mean kindly. You will be better
concealed on the lofty wooded summit of Odin's Mountain than in the
marshes. Life in the fever-breeding swamps is full of discomfort--the
disease often attacks the inhabitants--and it is not so safe. The
eastern band will not remain in your hiding place: Suomar himself
cannot protect you; concealment is your sole defence. But on Odin's
Mountain, far up within the stone fortress, the gods of the land
themselves will shield you. And the life there in the woodland huts and
tents built of green branches will be more comfortable and pleasant.
And--" he spoke slowly and modestly--"I myself will be there to defend
you. Follow me,--to-morrow it may be too late,--follow me at once!"

Just at that moment two acorns fell rattling on the top of the rude
stone table and rebounded to the earth. Adalo looked up. "A squirrel?"
he asked.

"Yes. A _red_ one," added the old woman, nodding. "It often plays its
saucy pranks up there. They are sometimes very spiteful."

"Indeed they are," replied Adalo, laughing. "One which I once caught
nearly bit through my finger. There!"

Waldrun felt the fore-finger of his outstretched hand, then without
releasing it, said: "There is another scar close by. My naughty
granddaughter bit you years ago--do you remember? How did it happen?"

"It was at the spring festival. The west wind was blowing furiously,
like the very breath of Odin. She ventured alone in your mouldering
boat--the old one hollowed from a log--to cross the lake. The others
jeered at her--I pleaded. Every effort was vain. Springing into the
skiff, she pushed off: if she passed beyond the rushes into the open
water she was lost. I ran after her, waded, swam, and dragged her from
the boat, just as it upset. I carried her to the shore, while she
writhed and struggled, spitting like an otter, and, by way of thanks,
bit my finger."

"And then," replied Waldrun reprovingly, "some spiteful tongue uttered
the saying,

"'Sharp is the squirrel's scratch,
Bissula's bite is sharper.'

"The saying ran through the district, nay, all the provinces by