Olaf saw that I was vexed now, and put forward a plan which he thought would be pleasant to me, for he was certain that I should not be satisfied until I had seen if I was right.

“There is no reason why we should not go to the mere and see if Gunnhild is there,” he said.  “If she is, maybe it will be well for you to speak with her.  And if not—­why, then we know at least that she has a good hiding place elsewhere.”

That was a plan that pleased me well, for though I had no fear of going to that lonely place so long as I had made myself certain that I should meet Gunnhild, now that it seemed not quite so sure but that I should find myself alone there, the thought of the quest was not quite so pleasant to me.

“Then we may as well go at once,” Olaf said.  “How like you the thought, Ottar?”

“I like not such places, my king,” the scald answered honestly.  “There are chills that come over one, and rising of the hair.”

“Aye, there are,” answered Olaf.  “I have a fear of this White Lady myself.  Therefore am I going with Redwald, because I want to see if there is aught to be feared of.”

“I will come with you,” the scald said, hardening his heart, for his mind was full of the wild tales of the old heathen days which he sang, and he feared more than we.

“It is but a lady after all,” said Olaf, laughing at Ottar’s face.

“I have a sort of fear of living ladies,” the scald said, “how much more, therefore, of their ghosts!  I had rather meet Danes.  For when one sees them there comes a stiffening of back and knees and fists—­whereas—­”

“Aye, Redwald and I know somewhat of what you mean,” laughed Olaf, and then Ottar laughed, and we took our cloaks and were going, but first must seek Rani, and tell him that we were now about to leave the village for an hour or so.

Now no man questioned Olaf as to his lonely walks, as I saw in Normandy, and Rani said nought but: 

“Take your arms, for there may be wandering Danes about.”

But we were armed already, though without mail, and as we went not far it seemed unlikely that we should need any.  It was but a hall-hour’s walk from the house.

Now the mere lies on the south side of the river, which runs into it only by a narrow inlet, and this inlet is so overshadowed by the trees of the thick woodland that when one has passed through the opening it is lost to sight very quickly.  So heavy is the growth of timber round the mere that one can see the water from no place, save for a glimpse as this inlet is passed in going down the river, and many a stranger has passed by all unknowing that such a mere could be near him.  Hardly can the wind reach the wide waters to ruffle them even when a gale blows, and so the place is more silent, and its terror falls more heavily on a man’s mind.

It was two hours after sunset when we started, but the fringe of the woodland is but a mile and a half from the village, and we were soon there.  The night was bright enough, with a clear sky and stars overhead, though there was no moon as yet.