Then a longing to be with them again came over me, and I rose and stretched my hands to the place where I had seen them, but there was nothing—­until I turned a little, looking for them; and then I knew that there was one who would speak to me yet.

The penthouse chamber was open, and it seemed to be filled with a white light and soft, and in the doorway stood the old king, beckoning to me, so that, for all my fears, I must needs go to him.  Yet there was naught for me to fear in the look which he turned on me.

“Friend,” he said, “the old sea which I love should be my grave.  See to it that so it shall be.  Then shall you do the bidding of the maiden whom I have loved, my son’s daughter, and it shall be well with you, and with those friends of yours and of mine who sleep yonder.”

Therewith he paused, and his glance went to the things which lay round the boats and in them—­the things which had been set in the ship for the hero to take to Asgard with him.

“See these things,” he said again.  “They are hers, and not mine.  There will be a time when she will have need of them.  In the place where I shall be is no need of treasure, as I deemed before I knew.  Nor of sword, or mail, or gear of war at all.  And the ways of the peace of that place are the best.”

Then I was alone on the deck, and the tall figure with the long white beard and hair was no longer before me.  The chamber was closed, even as we had left it, and there was neither sign nor sound to tell me how that had been wrought.  And with that a terror came on me, and I went backward toward where my comrades lay, crying to them by name, and my knees failed me, and I fell on the deck, unknowing if they heard.

Bertric leapt up and saw me falling, and ran to me.

“Poor lad!” he said, “poor lad!  Here is he worn out by fighting and watching, and I would let him watch yet more—­I, who am used to the long hours at sea, and have grown hard in ill usage.”

With that he called to Dalfin, who was sitting up sleepily, being as worn out as myself, and they two hapt me in the sail, and made me drink of the wine—­which I would not have done at all, if I had rightly known what I was about, considering whence it came—­and presently I came to myself and thanked them, feeling foolish.  But more than that I did not do, for the warmth took hold of me, and I fell asleep with the words on my lips.  Nor did Dalfin need a second bidding before he lay down again alongside me and slept.  And so Bertric went on watch silently, and I heeded nothing more, till the sun and the heave of the ship on a long swell that was setting from the north woke me.

In the sunlight those visions which I had seen seemed as if they had been but wrought of weariness and weakness, and of the long thoughts which I had been thinking.  I would heed them as little as I might, therefore, lest they took hold of me again.  But I had not forgotten the words which had been spoken to me, for they were good, and in no wise fanciful.