_Jorun_.--A woman who herself has no children is not destined to be
mother to a chieftain. My son Kalf shall never come into your hands
whilst I live. I wish him to learn works of peace, and not warfare and
slaughter.

_Helga_.--Let your Thorgeir be ordained priest, as kinsmen of yours have
done. (_Stands_ KALF _on the floor, getting up herself and stroking him
on his head_.) But be careful to raise Kalf in such a manner that he
become a successor to my husband and his father.

_Jorun_.--Go now, boys! (_The boys leave the room_.) You say that Kalf
will be the successor of your husband and of his father?

_Helga_.--You know about the ill health of my husband Kolbein, which
may take him away earlier than one might suspect. And yet it may be that
Brand Kolbeinsson will not live even as long as he.

_Jorun_.--What is that you say? As a fact I know that Hjalti, the son of
the bishop, is not coming from the South to settle our differences!

_Helga_ (_laughs_).--He, the cod-biter! His men were all at the
fishing-stations when Asbjorn arrived in the South. Hjalti is coming by
no means, and my husband is raging at him.

_Jorun_.--You must have stirred up Kolbein the Young in this matter as
never before. Did you not drive home with the corpse of Thorolf, saying
to him that there was life in him still; but when he took Thorolf out
of your sleigh his head rolled about Kolbein's feet. Nor was that to be
wondered at, considering the love that was between you and Thorolf.