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“It stands upon my honour,” quoth Finnward, “and I have the name of an honourable man.”

“You have the name of a weak one,” says Thorgunna. “Look to it, look to it, Finnward. Your house shall rue it else.”

“The rooftree of my house is my word,” said Finnward.

“And that is a true saying,” says the woman. “See to it, then. The speech of Thorgunna is ended.”

With that she turned her face against the wall and Finnward left her.

The same night, in the small hours of the clock, Thorgunna passed. It was a wild night for summer, and the wind sang about the eaves and clouds covered the moon, when the dark woman wended. From that day to this no man has learned her story or her people’s name; but be sure the one was stormy and the other great. She had come to that isle, a waif woman, on a ship; thence she flitted, and no more remained of her but her heavy chests and her big body.

In the morning the house women streaked and dressed the corpse. Then came Finnward, and carried the sheets and curtains from the house, and caused build a fire upon the sands. But Aud had an eye on her man’s doings.

“And what is this that you are at?” said she.

So he told her.

“Burn the good sheets!” she cried. “And where would I be with my two hands? No, troth,” said Aud, “not so long as your wife is above ground!”

“Good wife,” said Finnward, “this is beyond your province. Here is my word pledged and the woman dead I pledged it to. So much the more am I bound. Let me be doing as I must, goodwife.”

“Tilly-valley!” says she, “and a fiddlestick’s end, goodman! You may know well about fishing and be good at shearing sheep for what I know; but you are little of a judge of damask sheets. And the best word I can say is just this,” she says, laying hold of one end of the goods, “that if ye are made up to burn the plenishing, you must burn your wife along with it.”

“I trust it will not go so hard,” says Finnward, “and I beg you not to speak so loud and let the house folk hear you.”

“Let them speak low that are ashamed!” cries Aud. “I speak only in reason.”

“You are to consider that the woman died in my house,” says Finnward, “and this was her last behest. In truth, goodwife, if I were to fail, it is a thing that would stick long in my throat, and would give us an ill name with the neighbours.”

“And you are to consider,” says she, “that I am your true wife and worth all the witches ever burnt, and loving her old husband”–here she put her arms about his neck. “And you are to consider that what you wish to do is to destroy fine stuff, such as we have no means of replacing; and that she bade you do it singly to spite me, for I sought to buy this bedding from her while she was alive at her own price; and that she hated me because I was young and handsome.”

“That is a true word that she hated you, for she said so herself before she wended,” says Finnward.

“So that here is an old faggot that hated me, and she dead as a bucket,” says Aud; “and here is a young wife that loves you dear, and is alive forby”–and at that she kissed him–“and the point is, which are you to do the will of?”

The man’s weakness caught him hard, and he faltered. “I fear some hurt will come of it,” said he.

There she cut in, and bade the lads tread out the fire, and the lasses roll the bed-stuff up and carry it within.