ODDNY
  ’Tis an unlikely tale:  he never said it. 
  No one could mind such things in such an hour. 
  Plainly he saw his fetch come down the sands,
  And knew he need not seek another country
  And take that with him to walk upon the deck
  In night and storm.

                        GUDFINN
                    He, he, he!  No man speaks thus.

                        JOFRID
  No man, no man:  he must be doomed somewhere.

                        BIARTEY
  Doomed and fey, my sisters....  We are too old,
  Yet I’d not marvel if we outlasted him. 
  Sisters, that is a fair fierce girl who spins.... 
  My fair fierce girl, you could fight—­but can you ride? 
  Would you not shout to be riding in a storm? 
  Ah—­h, girls learnt riding well when I was a girl,
  And foam rides on the breakers as I was taught.... 
  My fair fierce girl, tell me your noble name.

                        ODDNY
  My name is Oddny.

                        BIARTEY
  Oddny, when you are old
  Would you not be proud to be no man’s purse-string,
  But wild and wandering and friends with the earth? 
  Wander with us and learn to be old yet living. 
  We’d win fine food with you to beg for us.

                        STEINVOR
  Despised, cast out, unclean, and loose men’s night-bird.

                        ODDNY
  When I am old I shall be some man’s friend,
  And hold him when the darkness comes....

                      BIARTEY

And mumble by the fire and blink.... 
Good Oddny, let me spin for you awhile,
That Gunnar’s house may profit by his guesting: 
Come, trust me with your distaff....

ODDNY
Are there spells
Wrought on a distaff?

STEINVOR
Only by the Norns,
And they’ll not sit with human folk to-night.

                      ODDNY

Then you may spin all night for what I care;
But let the yarn run clean from knots and snarls,
Or I shall have the blame when you are gone.

BIARTEY (taking the distaff)
Trust well the aged knowledge of my hands;
Thin and thin do I spin, and the thread draws finer.

  (She sings as she spins.)

          They go by three. 
          And the moon shivers;
          The tired waves flee,
          The hidden rivers
          Also flee.

          I take three strands;
          There is one for her,
          One for my hands,
          And one to stir
          For another’s hands.

          I twine them thinner,
          The dead wool doubts;
          The outer is inner,
          The core slips out....

  (HALLGERD reenters by the dais door, holding a pair of shears.)