Leaving in the field his arms,
Let no man go
A fool's length forward:
For it is hard to know
When, on his way,
A man may need his weapon.
Ha'vama'l

The camp lay red in the sunset light, and the twilight hush had fallen
upon it so that one could hear the sleepy bird-calls in the woods
around, and the drowsy murmur of the river. Sigurd lay on his back under
a tree, staring up into the rustling greenery. From the booth set apart
for her, Helga came out dressed for the feast. She had replaced her
scarlet kirtle and hose by garments of azure-blue silk, and changed her
silver helmet for a golden diadem such as high-born maidens wore on
state occasions; but that was her only ornament, and her skirt was no
longer than before. Sigurd looked at her critically.

"It does not appear to me that you are very well dressed for a feast,"
said he. "Where are the bracelets and gold laces suitable to your rank?
It looks ill for Leif's generosity, if that is the finest kirtle you
own."

"That is unfairly spoken," Helga answered quickly. "He would dress me in
gold if I wished it; it is I who will not have it so. Have you forgotten
my hatred against clothes so fine that one must be careful of them? But
this was to be expected," she added, flushing with displeasure; "since
the Jarl's son has lived in Normandy, a maiden from a Greenland farm
must needs look mean to him."