"That shalt thou not, Hilda," said the hospitable Earl; "the meanest
wayfarer hath a right to bed and board in this house for a night and a
day, and thou wilt not disgrace us by leaving our threshold, the bread
unbroken, and the couch unpressed. Old friend, we were young
together, and thy face is welcome to me as the memory of former days."

Hilda shook her head, and one of those rare, and for that reason most
touching, expressions of tenderness of which the calm and rigid
character of her features, when in repose, seemed scarcely
susceptible, softened her eye, and relaxed the firm lines of her lips.

"Son of Wolnoth," said she, gently, "not under thy roof-tree should
lodge the raven of bode. Bread have I not broken since yestere'en,
and sleep will be far from my eyes to-night. Fear not, for my people
without are stout and armed, and for the rest there lives not the man
whose arm can have power over Hilda."

She took Harold's hand as she spoke, and leading him forth, whispered
in his ear, "I would have a word with thee ere we part." Then,
reaching the threshold, she waved her hand thrice over the floor, and
muttered in the Danish tongue a rude verse, which, translated, ran
somewhat thus:

"All free from the knot
Glide the thread of the skein,
And rest to the labour,
And peace to the pain!"

"It is a death-dirge," said Githa, with whitening lips, but she spoke
inly, and neither husband nor son heard her words.