Letters From High Latitudes [100]
is near him,--but, wounded himself, and so weak and weary that in a desperate onslaught by the King's men,--nicknamed "Dag's storm,"--HE ONLY STOOD BY HIS COMRADE IN THE RANKS, ALTHOUGH HE COULD DO NOTHING.
The noise of the battle has ceased; the King is lying dead where he fell. The very man who had dealt him his death-wound has laid the body straight out on the ground, and spread a cloak over it. "And when he wiped the blood from the face it was very beautiful, and there was red in the cheeks, as if he only slept."
Thormod, who had received a second wound as he stood in the ranks--(an arrow in his side, which he breaks off at the shaft),--wanders away towards a large barn, where other wounded men have taken refuge. Entering with his drawn sword in his hand, he meets one of the Bonders coming out, who says, "It is very bad there, with howling and screaming; and a great shame it is, that brisk young fellows cannot bear their wounds. The King's men may have done bravely to-day, but truly they bear their wounds ill."
Thormod asks what his name is, and if he was in the battle. Kimbe was his name, and he had been "with the Bonders, which was the best side." "And hast thou been in the battle too?" asks he of Thormod.
Thormod replies, "I was with them that had the best."
"Art thou wounded?" says Kimbe.
"Not much to signify," says Thormod.
Kimbe sees the gold ring, and says, "Thou art a King's man: give me thy gold ring, and I will hide thee."
Thormod replies, "Take the ring if thou canst get it; _I_ HAVE LOST THAT WHICH IS MORE WORTH."
Kimbe stretches out his hand to seize the ring; but Thormod, swinging his sword, cuts off his hand; "and it is related, that Kimbe behaved no better under his wound than those he had just been blaming."
Thormod then enters the house where the wounded men are lying, and seats himself in silence by the door.
As the people go in and out, one of them casts a look at Thormod, and says, "Why art thou so dead pale? Art thou wounded?" He answers carelessly, with a half-jesting rhyme; then rises and stands awhile by the fire. A woman, who is attending on those who are hurt, bids him "go out, and bring in firewood from the door." He returns with the wood, and the girl then looking him in the face, says, "Dreadfully pale is this man;" and asks to see his wounds. She examines his wound in his side, and feels that the iron of the arrow is still there; she then takes a pair of tongs and tries to pull it out, "but it sat too fast, and as the wound was swelled, little of it stood out to lay hold of." Thormod bids her "cut deep enough to reach the iron, and then to give him the tongs, and let him pull." She did as he bade. He takes the ring from his hand, and gives it to the girl, saying, "It is a good man's gift! King Olaf gave it to me this morning." Then Thormod took the tongs and pulled the iron out. The arrow-head was barbed, and on it there hung some morsels of flesh. When he saw that he said, "THE KING HAS FED US WELL! I am fat, even at the heart-roots!" And so saying, he leant back, and died. [Footnote: When a man was wounded in the abdomen, it was the habit of the Norse leeches to give him an onion to eat; by this means they learnt whether the weapon had perforated the viscera.]
Stout, faithful heart! if they gave you no place in your master's stately tomb, there is room for you by his side in heaven!
I have at last received--I need not say how joyfully--two letters from you; one addressed to Hammerfest. I had begun to think that some Norwegian warlock had bewitched the post-bags, in the approved old ballad fashion, to prevent their rendering up my dues; for when the packet of letters addressed to the "Foam" was brought on board, immediately after our arrival, I alone got nothing. From Sigurdr and the Doctor to the cabin-boy, every face was beaming over "news from home!" while I was left to walk the deck, with my hands in my pockets, pretending not to care. But the spell is broken now, and I retract my evil thoughts of the warlock and you.
Yesterday, we made an
The noise of the battle has ceased; the King is lying dead where he fell. The very man who had dealt him his death-wound has laid the body straight out on the ground, and spread a cloak over it. "And when he wiped the blood from the face it was very beautiful, and there was red in the cheeks, as if he only slept."
Thormod, who had received a second wound as he stood in the ranks--(an arrow in his side, which he breaks off at the shaft),--wanders away towards a large barn, where other wounded men have taken refuge. Entering with his drawn sword in his hand, he meets one of the Bonders coming out, who says, "It is very bad there, with howling and screaming; and a great shame it is, that brisk young fellows cannot bear their wounds. The King's men may have done bravely to-day, but truly they bear their wounds ill."
Thormod asks what his name is, and if he was in the battle. Kimbe was his name, and he had been "with the Bonders, which was the best side." "And hast thou been in the battle too?" asks he of Thormod.
Thormod replies, "I was with them that had the best."
"Art thou wounded?" says Kimbe.
"Not much to signify," says Thormod.
Kimbe sees the gold ring, and says, "Thou art a King's man: give me thy gold ring, and I will hide thee."
Thormod replies, "Take the ring if thou canst get it; _I_ HAVE LOST THAT WHICH IS MORE WORTH."
Kimbe stretches out his hand to seize the ring; but Thormod, swinging his sword, cuts off his hand; "and it is related, that Kimbe behaved no better under his wound than those he had just been blaming."
Thormod then enters the house where the wounded men are lying, and seats himself in silence by the door.
As the people go in and out, one of them casts a look at Thormod, and says, "Why art thou so dead pale? Art thou wounded?" He answers carelessly, with a half-jesting rhyme; then rises and stands awhile by the fire. A woman, who is attending on those who are hurt, bids him "go out, and bring in firewood from the door." He returns with the wood, and the girl then looking him in the face, says, "Dreadfully pale is this man;" and asks to see his wounds. She examines his wound in his side, and feels that the iron of the arrow is still there; she then takes a pair of tongs and tries to pull it out, "but it sat too fast, and as the wound was swelled, little of it stood out to lay hold of." Thormod bids her "cut deep enough to reach the iron, and then to give him the tongs, and let him pull." She did as he bade. He takes the ring from his hand, and gives it to the girl, saying, "It is a good man's gift! King Olaf gave it to me this morning." Then Thormod took the tongs and pulled the iron out. The arrow-head was barbed, and on it there hung some morsels of flesh. When he saw that he said, "THE KING HAS FED US WELL! I am fat, even at the heart-roots!" And so saying, he leant back, and died. [Footnote: When a man was wounded in the abdomen, it was the habit of the Norse leeches to give him an onion to eat; by this means they learnt whether the weapon had perforated the viscera.]
Stout, faithful heart! if they gave you no place in your master's stately tomb, there is room for you by his side in heaven!
I have at last received--I need not say how joyfully--two letters from you; one addressed to Hammerfest. I had begun to think that some Norwegian warlock had bewitched the post-bags, in the approved old ballad fashion, to prevent their rendering up my dues; for when the packet of letters addressed to the "Foam" was brought on board, immediately after our arrival, I alone got nothing. From Sigurdr and the Doctor to the cabin-boy, every face was beaming over "news from home!" while I was left to walk the deck, with my hands in my pockets, pretending not to care. But the spell is broken now, and I retract my evil thoughts of the warlock and you.
Yesterday, we made an