in our great hall at Bures, and I remember how the strands of
leather thong fell in my hand; I remember how my mother's spinning
wheel stopped short with a snapping of broken threads; how the
thrall who was feeding the fire stayed with the log in his hands;
how the sleepy men at the lower end of the hall sprang up with
heavy words checked on their lips before the lady's presence; how
the maidens screamed--aye, and how the draught swayed the wall
hangings, and sent a long train of sparks flying from a half-dead
torch, as the great door was thrown open and a man flung himself
into our midst, mud splashed and white faced, with hands that
quivered towards us as he cried hoarsely:

"In haste, mistress--you must fly--the Danes--" and fell like a log
at my mother's feet where she sat on the dais, neither moving nor
speaking more.

It was Grinkel, the leader of our housecarles {1}. His armour
was rent and gashed, and no sword was in the scabbard at his side,
and his helm was gone, and now as he fell a bandage slipped from
his arm, and slowly the red stream from a great wound ran among the
sweet sedges wherewith the floor was strewn.

There came a mist before my eyes, and my heart beat thick and fast
as I saw him; but my mother rose up neither screaming nor growing
faint, though through her mind, as through mine, must have glanced
the knowledge of all that this homecoming of brave Grinkel meant.
She stepped from the high place to the warrior's side and hastily
rebound the wound, telling the maidens meanwhile to bring wine that
she might revive him if he were not already sped.