sympathy fall swiftly on the axe-haft and clasp it hard. That
movement ever fired Sweyn's admiration anew; he watched for it,
strove to elicit it, and glowed when it came. Wonderful and
beautiful was that wrist, slender and steel-strong; also the
smooth shapely hand, that curved so fast and firm, ready to deal
instant death.

Desiring to feel the pressure of these hands, this bold lover
schemed with palpable directness, proposing that she should hear
how their hunting songs were sung, with a chorus that signalled
hands to be clasped. So his splendid voice gave the verses, and,
as the chorus was taken up, he claimed her hands, and, even
through the easy grip, felt, as he desired, the strength that was
latent, and the vigour that quickened the very fingertips, as the
song fired her, and her voice was caught out of her by the
rhythmic swell, and rang clear on the top of the closing surge.

Afterwards she sang alone. For contrast, or in the pride of
swaying moods by her voice, she chose a mournful song that drifted
along in a minor chant, sad as a wind that dirges:

"Oh, let me go!
Around spin wreaths of snow;
The dark earth sleeps below.

"Far up the plain
Moans on a voice of pain:
'Where shall my babe be lain?'

"In my white breast