Gunnar stood by the wagon, backing the storm. He waited for Sigrid to call him. He could see her shadow moving about, and that she seemed very busy. His temper began to rise. "What is the matter now? Have I not earned shelter yet? Or does she wait until I am frostbitten?"

Her voice came scared from the curtains. "Are you there, Gunnar?"

"Ha! Am I here? I am a hillock of snow. There is nothing left of me that is not ice. Have you no ruth then?"

Her voice had great fear in it. "I am afraid of Frey. He is very angry."

Then Gunnar's wrath overflowed and was bitter in the mouth. "What, is Frey angry? Ah, but I am angry too. I'll deal with Frey. Let me get at him."

He climbed the wagon wheel and put his head and shoulders in the curtains. He saw Frey standing in the cart. With a lurch forward, he got him by the beard and pulled him over towards himself. "Now, Frey, you and I are at grips. Come, out with you."

He now had Frey under the arms, and was hauling him out. When he had got so much of him out as was enough, he let go, and Frey, overbalancing, fell upon his head into the snow. The gleaming of the candle showed him the axe hanging on its accustomed nail. "I'll take that," he said, and got down with it in his hand.

Now he set Frey up in the snow and took him by the ears. Frey had his crown on, but none of his clothes. Seeing him now as he really was, Gunnar's blood boiled within him.

"Dangerous, malignant idol," he said, with his teeth clenched, "whether you are devil or stock you shall be neither within this few minutes. To what monstrous pass have you brought us, to keep true lovers apart! You, to keep lovers apart! To what shameful drudgery you turn this sweet woman. You, to drudge a woman! Ah, block of abomination, the one good thing you have done is to turn my heart to a faith that is cleaner than yours. If you have set me free, now it is my turn. Here's for Sigrid—and to let the fiend out of the tree." With that he swung the axe high in the air and brought it down true upon the head of Frey. Frey was cloven from the crown to the chine, and fell neatly in halves on either side of him. Gunnar looked up. The cloud-wrack had blown over, the sky was clear and gemmed with stars.

"Frey has ridden off on the storm," he said. Then he called aloud, "Sigrid!" And her faint voice answered, "Gunnar!" He climbed into the wagon.

MORROW OF THE STORM