Gunnar was a friendly man and made himself pleasant about the place. He used to sit out in the sun and converse with the village people. He told tales to the children and played games with them. The old man who had been wishful to sacrifice him bore him no malice; but Gunnar told him plainly that he did not approve his practices. "In my country, and in Iceland also, there has been much devotion to Frey, who is a great God; but human sacrifice is not required by him, nor are we profaned with it. Prisoners of war may not be used that way. We think it barbarous and abominable."

"Well," the old man said, "it has always been the custom here. And you must remember the services Frey performs. He is resting now. His work is over. But when the spring comes there will be no man in the country busier than Frey. There is not a tilled field he must not visit; and the grass-lands and the gravid sheep, and the lambs and sucklings of all sorts; the sick draught-animals; the ewes who are to go under the rams; the bulling cows; the reindeer—well, you can see for yourself that he must be propitiated. And how else, pray, would you have it done?"

"The Christians, who are to the fore in Norway just now," replied Gunnar, "have a God who has given them another law altogether. Their God had a Son Who said to His Father, 'Enough of these human sacrifices. I detest them and will have nothing to say to them.' 'What will you do then?' his Father asked. 'Why,' said He, 'I will be made man myself. I will be born of a woman, and put to death. That will be a sufficient sacrifice for every one in the world.' And so it was, they say, and their God accepted it as sufficient. But the Christians have a strange power which is resident in their priests; and that is, that the priest does sacrifice every day, and makes anew the Son of God into a man of body and blood. Every day he offers it on the altar. So the prime sacrifice is every day renewed, and all goes well. That is what they say."

The old man was very much astonished. "You are speaking of marvellous things," he said. "It is the way of you travellers. But I do not believe that the Swedes would be content with such a sacrifice, and I am sure that Frey would not."

"We shall see," Gunnar said, but said no more at the time. He was determined that while he remained in Frey's house Frey would go without human blood upon his altar-stone.

Sigrid liked him to be there. She found him very good company. He made her laugh, which Frey, she said, had never done yet. "He will though," Gunnar told her, but she shook her head.

At the end of three days, he asked her what he was to do about staying on. They sat together under the gallery outside the house. Frey was inside behind his curtains. It was the hour before the sacrifice, when his curtains would be opened, and himself shown in his fine new cloak. So far there had been no attempt made to sacrifice a man or child, which Gunnar was glad of, because he was not yet sure enough of his footing.

She frowned and nursed her chin. "Why," she said, "I don't know what is to be done. Frey doesn't like you at all; I can see that."

"Have you talked it over with him as you promised me?" She nodded her head.

"And what did he say?" She looked away as she answered him.

"He said very little; but he was very stiff."

"I should think he was always rather stiff," Gunnar said, and she frowned and grew red.

"But what do you feel about it yourself?" said Gunnar. "I believe that you find me well enough."

She nodded. "Yes, I do. I like you to be here. You make me laugh. I feel younger than I did."

"That is good news," said Gunnar. "I understand that you are sixteen years old. Do you now feel that you are twelve?"

She laughed. "Sometimes I do."

"Then," said Gunnar, "keep me here a month or two longer and I shall rock you in your cradle."

She considered whether he was laughing at her, and then asked him suddenly, was he married, had he children?

"No, sweetheart," he said, "but I should like a wife very well if I could get one to my mind."

Now she reproved him. "You must not say that. I am not to be called so."

"Why, what is the harm in that?" he said. "It's what I used to call Sorrel, my mare."

"It may be so," she replied, "but I am not your mare."

"No indeed," he said. "But what then shall I call you? Shall I say 'Pretty one' or 'Kind lass'?"

"No. Frey would dislike it."

"But," he said, "all these names are true of you."

She said, "Frey will like them all the less."

Gunnar said that he would risk it. And certain it is that he did, and that she said nothing more about it.

She decided that he should stay on until the winter feasts began. "And then we will see what can be done. Maybe he will be more used to you by then."

"Oh, as for him," Gunnar said lightly, "he has had a fine cloak from me, and I suppose that is enough."

She frowned, and tossed her foot. "You don't know Frey yet."

Then came the hour of sacrifice and a leading-in of sick animals to be blessed by Frey. Gunnar was very useful here, for he was skilled in farriery, and could do much too with sheep and cattle. They called him the new priest of Frey, and held him in great honour. But the more that they thought of Frey on his account the less, naturally, Gunnar thought of him on his own. He did not now believe that even a devil resided in him, or found it difficult of belief. Frey had the appearance of frowning sometimes, and sometimes there seemed to be a red flame in his eyes. Another thing he could do with his eyes: he could cause them to follow you all over the room. Those eyes of his were for ever upon Gunnar and Sigrid so that they used to say to each other, "We can't talk here. Let us go into the gallery." She never said, "Let us go into the chamber," and it never entered Gunnar's mind to propose it. But it had entered into hers.

Gunnar, however, began to dislike Frey. He despised him, and yet found that added to his dislike. He told himself that Sigrid's marriage was a black shame.

After he had been with her a while she told him what she knew about herself. She had never known her father, nor even what his name was. Her mother had been called Sea-child; and Sigrid remembered being carried on her back, slung in a shawl. Her mother had had black hair and yellow eyes which looked black in the dark, and as pale as the palest amber in strong light. She was rather tall, whereas Sigrid—who also had black hair and amber eyes, though of a darker tint—was a little woman. She thought that she remembered her mother saying that they had crossed the sea; and that somebody, her mother or an old man who used to be with them sometimes, had spoken of a city called Prag. She thought that this must be true, because she had never heard anybody in Sweden speak of Prag, and doubted she could have made up the name for herself. Gunnar told her that she had not. "There is a city called Prag, on a mighty river. I have seen the river," he said, "but not the city of Prag."

Well then she told him that the Swedes had ill-treated the old man who used to be with them. They had put him into an osier basket, and pierced that through and through with swords; she remembered the bright blood welling out between the plaited wicker. That had been done upon the altar of a God—she believed it was Frey. As for her mother, some man had taken her to live in his house, and she herself had lain about with the cattle, and had been sent to keep swine in the woods. Nobody had hurt her, but she had gone in terror of wolves, which in winter were dangerous, and came sometimes into the villages and carried off children from the doorways. They were so hungry that even when they were beaten off they only ran to a little distance, and then came back again to snuff about for what there might be in their way.

Then she remembered a day when her mother brought her into the house, and took off her rags, and put a new gown on her. She twisted up her hair into a long plait, and made her see if she could still sit upon it. That was easy. After that she was kept at home with the children of the house; and men used to take notice of her, kiss her and take her on their knees. She had liked that for a time, because she liked people who were kind and friendly; but there was too much of it, and she used to run away and hide herself.

There had been a lad, she said, called Tostig, belonging to the household of her mother's husband. He had been in love with her, she supposed. At any rate he was always in her company, and she had liked him very well. One day when they were all in the temple before Frey, with garlands of flowers, his eyes had burned fiercely, and by and by he fell forward upon Tostig and knocked him down. They picked up Frey; and the priests said that Tostig was to be sacrificed. That was done. They put him in an osier basket and transpierced it with their swords. After that Frey's eyes were cool and steady, and nothing more occurred until the following spring when Frey was to have started on his rounds to bless the vegetation. Then again when they were in the temple his eyes burned, and again he fell, this time upon herself. She was thrown backwards and Frey upon her. Then she believed that her last hour was at hand; but her mother was shrill and urgent with the priests, calling them fools. She said that Frey had been jealous of Tostig and fell upon him on that account; but he fell upon Sigrid for no reason of that sort, but to mark her for his own. Sigrid, she said, was now marriageable. Frey wanted to marry her, and to disoblige him would be at their peril. There was high debate about all this, and other priests from other villages were called in. Frey was asked, and they say that he nodded his head. She herself was not asked; but she was taken into the temple one night by her mother and told what she would have to do. On the next day was the wedding and great rejoicings all over the forest country.

Gunnar stopped her here. "They married you to that block of painted wood?"

She said, "They married me to Frey."

Gunnar said, "But——" and then he stopped short himself. "There is no more to be said."

"No," she said, "that is the end of it. We set out in the ox-wagon soon after that."

"How long ago was this?" he asked her.

She replied, "I was marriageable, my mother said. I don't know when it was." Then she thought aloud. "One, two, three—yes, it was three springs ago last spring."

"And you say you are sixteen years old."

"I don't say so," she replied; "the people here say so. My mother died two springs ago when I was away with Frey on his rounds."

Gunnar got up from the bench where they were sitting. "Wait here for me," he said, and went into the temple, folding the curtains behind him. There stood Frey, crowned and standing, with his shining scarlet nostrils. Gunnar went up to him and took him by the nose. "God or devil," he said, "I'll get this out of joint before I've done with you, or you with Gunnar." Frey rocked under the force of his passion, but said nothing.

Gunnar came back and found Sigrid where she was. She did not look up. He stretched out his hands towards her, then dropped them and began to whistle a tune.

That made her look up smiling. "You seem in good spirits," she said.

"I feel considerably better than I did," he told her, "but there is much to do before I am perfectly myself again."

GUNNAR TURNS FREY ABOUT AGAINST FREY'S WILL