slain. Rain blew from the south-west and beat in his face, the brambles
tore his legs, but he was dead to all things. Would that the Shield Maids
had chosen him to go with that brave company to the bright hall of Odin!
But he was only a boy and they did not choose striplings.

Suddenly in a clearing a pin-point of light pricked the darkness.

The desire for human companionship came over him, even though it were that
of enemy or outcast. He staggered to the door and beat on it feebly. A
voice spoke from within, but he did not hear what it said.

Again he beat and again the voice came. And now his knocking grew feebler,
for he was at the end of his strength.

Then the bar was suddenly withdrawn and he was looking inside a poor hut,
smoky from the wood-fire in the midst of it. An old woman sat by it with a
bowl in her hand, and an oldish man with a cudgel stood before him. He did
not understand their speech, but he gathered he was being asked his errand.

"I am Biorn," he said, "and my father was Ironbeard, the King."

They shook their heads, but since they saw only a weary, tattered boy they
lost their fears. They invited him indoors, and their voices were kindly.
Nodding with exhaustion, he was given a stool to sit on and a bowl of
coarse porridge was put into his hands. They plied him with questions, but
he could make nothing of their tongue.

Then the thrall rose, yawned, and dropped the bar over the door. The sound
was to the boy like the clanging of iron gates on his old happy world. For
a moment he was on the brink of tears. But he set his teeth and stiffened