But there was no way out unless a ladder or rope were lowered to
me. The roof of the place was rounded and arched above me, and the
hole was in its centre so that I could not reach it. Maybe the
place was ten feet across and ten feet high under the hole, and it
minded me of the snake pit into which Gunnar the hero was thrown,
as Ottar the scald sang. Only here were no snakes, and the air was
thick and musty, but dry enough. I could see the beams of the house
roof above the hole.

Then I thought that if I could prise some stones from the old walls
I might pile them up until I reached the edge of the hole with my
hands, when it would be easy to draw myself up, though maybe not
without taking off my armour. But when I tried the joints of the
masonry with the point of my seax, I did but blunt the weapon, for
the mortar was harder than the stone, which was the red sandstone
of the cliff where we had rested.

So I forbore and sat down, leaning my aching head against the cool
wall, to wait for Olaf's return. There would be time to shout when
I heard voices again, and it was not good to make much noise in
that place after the blow of a club that had set my ears ringing
already.

Then I fell to thinking of Sexberga, and those thoughts were
pleasant enough. And idly I began to sharpen my seax again on a
great square stone that was handy in the wall as I sat, but it was
very soft, and crumbled away under the steel without doing it much
good.

Now, when one is waiting and thinking, one will play with an idle