Death, what is death?  I say that it is the hope of every one of us and most of all the exile and the wanderer.  At the best it may be glory; at the worst it must be sleep.  Moreover, am I so happy that I should fear to die?  Quilla cannot read this writing, and therefore I will answer, No.  I am a Christian, but she and those about her, aye, my own children with them, worship the moon and the host of heaven.  I am white-skinned, they are the hue of copper, though it is true that my little daughter, Gudruda, whom I named so after my mother, is almost white.  There are secrets in their hearts that I shall never learn and there are secrets in mine from which they cannot draw the veil because our bloods are different.  Yet God knows, I love them well enough, and most of all that greatest of women, Quilla.

Oh! the truth is that here on earth there is no happiness for man.

It is because of this rumour of the coming of Kari with his host that I set myself to this task, that I have long had in my mind, to write down something of my history, both in England and in this land which, at any rate for hundreds of years, mine is the first white foot to press.  It seems a foolish thing to do since when I have written who will read, and what will chance to that which I have written?  I shall leave orders that it be placed beneath my feet in the tomb, but who will ever find that tomb again?  Still I write because something in my heart urges me to the task.

I return to the far-off days.  Our boat being full with merry hearts we set sail before a faint wind for Hastings beach.  As yet there was little light and much fog, still the landward breeze was enough to draw us forward.  Then of a sudden we heard sounds as of men talking upon ships and the clank of spars and blocks.  Presently came a puff of air lifting the fog for a little and we saw that we were in the midst of a great fleet, a French fleet, for the Lilies of France flew at their mast-heads, saw, too, that their prows were set for Hastings, though for the while they were becalmed, since the wind that was enough for our light, large-sailed fishing-boat could not stir their bulk.  Moreover, they saw us, for the men-at-arms on the nearest ship shouted threats and curses at us and followed the shouts with arrows that almost hit us.

Then the fog closed down again, and in it we slipped through the French fleet.

It may have been the best part of an hour later that we reached Hastings.  Before the boat was made fast to the jetty, I sprang to it shouting: 

“Stir! stir! the French are upon you!  To arms!  We have slipped through a whole fleet of them in the mist.”

Instantly the sleepy quay seemed to awaken.  From the neighbouring fish market, from everywhere sailormen and others came running, followed by children with gaping mouths, while from the doors of houses far away shot women with scared faces, like ferreted rabbits from their burrows.  In a minute the crowd had surrounded me, all asking questions at once in such a fashion that I could only answer them with my cry of: