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  No legends remained, but Corenice thereafter spoke directly to Jaun and interpreted between the others and the mountain dwellers, although she could not always completely understand all that was said.

  One night they lay out under the bright stars and drank wine from Jaun’s chahakoa. They passed it from hand to hand and watched the slow wheeling of the constellations.

  “There is the Hough,” said Arngrim, pointing up at the Great Dipper and extending the wine pouch to Gwalchmai. He drank and said, “My father called it Arthur’s Wain. It guides the sailor and the men on the empty grass moors who hunt the humped cattle. My Uncle Ha-yon-wa-tha said that the little star, just above the bright one almost at the end of the shaft, was called The Papoose on the Squaw’s Back,‘ but I have forgotten the story about it.”

  Jaun asked Corenice what they had said. He laughed when she told him. He began to speak, and Corenice then translated the story.

  “The first two stars,” she said, “are two oxen stolen by two thieves from a farmer. The next two are the two thieves following the oxen. The first star hi the handle is the son of the farmer sent to catch the thieves; the double stars are his sister and her little dog, who were sent to find her brother and bring him back. Then, following all, is the farmer. He swore so terribly when he lost his oxen that God condemned them all to this endless journey.”

  “That was very wrong,” said Arngrim, seriously. “Perhaps the others shared some of the blame of the farmer—but the poor little dog! It was not his fault that he went along with the girl—it was his duty to do so. I feel sorry for him. He should not have been punished. Thor would never have done it.”

  Just then a streak of fire shot soundlessly across the sky and Jaun crossed himself. “May God guide the passing soul!”

  “Amen,” said Gwalchmai. “Do you know any more stories?”

  So the Basque told them of El Guestia, the ancient host, who travels about at night dressed in white with lighted candles in her hands, ringing a bell and muttering prayers for the dead.

  His voice fell to a whisper. “She attacks all she meets and says, Travel during the day, for the night belongs to me—e!‘”

  He shrieked the last words and grabbed Arngrim’s arm in an iron grip. Arngrim shouted and sent him rolling over the ground. Everyone laughed.

  Gwalchmai told them of the witch of Aztlan who runs through the streets wearing a necklace of human hearts, bringing death to those who see her on the five unlucky days at the end of the cycle.

  After this they all occasionally looked over their shoulders with some unease. Jaun noticed this, and said, “We have the Laminak, too. They are little people who live underground in beautiful castles and who are kind to lost children. They lead them home with firefly lanterns.”

  Corenice looked pensively at Gwalchmai and he knew that she was thinking of the banquet in Elveron. He wondered, as he did often of late, if he would ever see Huon again.

  No one wanted to go into a cave that night, so they slept out under the^ stars. Gwalchmai’s dreams troubled him and once he woke with a start, breathing hard. No stranger was visible, but he knew he had lain under unfriendly eyes and he was not sure that they were human. For some days he had felt such a cold stare upon him. Something, he was certain, was biding its time.

  The next day they went on into the mountains, along a dusty road lined with sycamores and poplars. They ate from provisions they had bought in the last village with the few coins that yet remained from King Brans’ bounty, and while they dined beside a clear stream a group of children came by, dancing as they went to the music of tambourine and a three-holed flute.

  They were driving a small flock of sheep. Jaun got up from the grassy bank and stopped them. There was talk back and forth hi Basque and Corenice strained to listen, but she could not catch the conversation.

  She said, a little peevishly, “Jaun tells me that they have a saying here, that your devil has no hold on the souls of these people, because he has never been able to learn the language! Sometimes I think I believe him. There are many words he uses to these children that were not custom in my time.”

  “I wish I could be as sure about my soul,” Gwalchmai muttered to himself. The day seemed suddenly to have lost a little of its brighness, as though a tenuous shadow veiled the sun for a moment.

  When the Basque came back, he gestured toward a gap in the mountains. “I will take you that far. Then I must return home. Yonder lies the road you seek. That is the Pass of Ebofieta. The French call it Roncesvaux.”

  RoncesvallesI Gwalchmai’s heart leaped. Now he would find out if Thor had truly forgiven him or no! Now he would learn if he had dreamed what he thought he had seen and heard on the slope beneath Arthur’s tomb! Now, if all were true, he would soon handle and possess the sword of a hero!

  “Will you take us through the pass?”

  Jaun shook his head. “The children say that a Xana has been seen. I already have a wife who would miss me if I did not come back.”

  “So have I,” said Gwalchmai. Corenice beamed upon him. She held his hand tightly.

  “Anyone who thinks we do not love each other because they do not see us talking very much should ask your heart and mine about it, should they not, my dear? What is a Xana, Jaun, and why should it matter if a man is married?”

  “A Xana is a beautiful nymph with long and flowing hair, golden and heavy hi the hand. They live in caves and fountains, and it is said that some are not really sprites, but are lovely women who have been enchanted. A Xana will wed an unmarried man if he disenchants her, but if a mar-, ried man does it he will never be happy until he has put away his own wife and taken the nymph instead.”

  Corenice held on a little tighter. “I do not like this part of the mountains. Is there another way we can pass through?”

  “There are eight passes in all, but this one is the best.”

  “I think it is the worst. Let us seek another. I remember a silly fay—”

  “And I am thinking of a nixie and a certain thin and supple willow branch that has not yet been cut,” grunted Gwalchmai “This is the road I sought and this is the pass I shall take. Are you coming, wife, or do I face this terrible danger alone?”

  “I wouldn’t let you go into it one step without me!”

  Arngrim laughed. “Have no fear. I will stand between You and the Xana, Jaun. Come with us. She shall have no power over you or the red man. Lady, it has been a long time since a beautiful woman frightened me. I promise you, if we meet a lovely nymph who wants to be disenchanted, I am just the one to help her! Believe me, many women have looked upon this ugly face of mine and have been disenchanted by it. Moreover, I have no wife! Step aside, fellows! I shall lead the way!”

  Taking the fore, he set off at a good pace toward the mountain gap. Jaun followed, but with some-hesitance.

  “Be not so foolhardy! This is Saint John’s day. She may not be protecting her fountain, but El Cuelebre—the winged serpent—will be!”

  Corenice was full of her own thoughts and angry. She did not bother to translate and as Jaun had lately been speaking to her in Basque and had so continued, Arngrim did not understand the warning. The big Varangian went on in haste and was soon out of sight of the others.

  The three laggards entered the pass looking about them with curiosity. There was nothing unusual to see. Broad at the entrance, the famous Pass of Roncesvalles narrowed rapidly, with high cliffs and steep wooded slopes on either side.

  Gwalchmai could see that a host-would have been rapidly compressed into a thin column at many points along its line of march. Boulders and fallen trees littered the trail and a heavy mist, which was lowering, hid the show-covered peaks among which the way meandered along toward France.

  Rivulets talked to one another in this mournful place and a small stream rippled by their path. It was obviously well traveled, but they met no one. Neither was there any sign of their companion.

  Jaun called out for him—a long yodel-like cry—but there was n
o answer. Then all shouted with no better result.

  “Perhaps he has met the Xana and it is safe for us to walk a little faster,” Gwalchmai said to the Basque, with a sidelong glance at Corenice. She sniffed.

  “Perhaps it would be better if we walked a little slower. Then he will be sure to meet her before you do!”

  Jaun smiled, but he maintained his place, a little bekind the others. This time, the guide was not leading, but being led.

  Both Gwalchmai and Corenice noticeed this. They began to regard the situation a little more seriously and soon Jaun had to hurry to keep up with them.

  An unnatural darkness was descending upon the mountains, as though above the mist thick storm clouds were gathering. Occasionally a peal of distant thunder rumbled and echoes fled along the winding narrow valley.

  “Near here,” said Jaun, “long, long ago, my people destroyed an army that was retreating into France. Every man was slain and a rich booty was gleaned.”

  “I thought it was the Moors who attached them. The French are Christian; your people are Christian. How did that come to be?”

  “Friend Gwalchmai, religion, faith, and friendship all stand aside when money comes to the front. If you have not learned that yet, then do so quickly—it may save your life.

  “This French army came to attack the Moors in Zara-goza, but the Moors paid tribute, so the army started back with a mighty treasure.

  “Great ^Carlos was both its General and its King. He thought himself out of danger when he reached Ronces-vaux, for the pass was held by the Eskualdunak, with whom he had made a peace.

  “The first part of the army passed through the whole defile to the other side. Then came the wagons, laden with gold and jewels and fine weapons and armor. There were tapestries and carvings, and holy pictures crusted with precious stones. There were ivories and spices of all kinds.

  “The mountaineers were poor people. All this wealth was too much for them. They ran along the tops of the cliffs and waited at the narrowest place, which we have not yet reached. Everybody helped. Men and women worked side by side and when the wagons got there, they set loose a landslide and stopped them. Then they rolled down rocks and tree trunks upon the helpless soldiers, and cut them down with sling-stones and arrows.

  “The soldiers were too proud to call for help until it was too late. When only a few knights were left, they were ringed around by many of our guerrilleros. Then one knight—his name was Ruotland and he was warden of the Marches of Brittany, it is said—blew such a powerful blast on his oli-phant that it was heard on the other side of the mountains.

  “Great Carlos led back his troops for a rescue, but when he got there every man was dead. He had lost half his army and all of his treasure. He grieved so that he never came this way again.

  “I have heard though that some of the treasure was hidden by the soldiers before all were killed. People still hunt for it, but none has ever been found. Most of us are poor in these mountains. I wish I could find some of it My wife will be glad to see me, but she would be happy to see a bag of gold too!”

  Suddenly through the mists came a wailing, prolonged scream that neared them at tremendous speed. Out of the cloudy ceiling, almost above their heads, a heavy body plunged into a tree top. They caught a glimpse of a long snaky neck, writhing and lashing about, its head armed with a swordlike spike.

  “El Cuelebrel” yelled the Basque. “It has killed our friend! I must go and tell the bees that a man is dead!”

  He turned to run. Following down into the tree, an eagle now stooped and struck its talons deep into the struggling creature. Then it flapped heavily up and they could see clearly what_the eagle’s prey had been. A large stork, dead now and limply hanging.

  “Winged serpent, indeed! You believe too many of your own stories!”

  Jaun was about to retort, but before he could answer Gwalchmai, a second stork followed the first, darting in upon the eagle.

  The predator had no chance to disengage. The stork’s mate was at him like a living lance, his neck straight and rigid, his beak closed and accurately aimed. The three fell together, the eagle pierced through and through—and the two storks with him, one dead and the other, unable to withdraw, who would soon die if it received no help.

  The little drama was over.

  “Now, by Saint Michel of Peril!” swore the Basque. “You may not believe in the winged serpent, but there is one. Surely, by now, our foolish friend has met it and it has slain him. I will burn a candle for him the next time I go into the new cathedral at Pamplona. Let us say a prayer for him while there is time.”

  Corenice ran to the dazed male stork. Gently she separated him from the eagle. He “staggered erect, eyed his slaughtered mate, and rubbed his head caressingly against her body. Then he heavily took to the air.

  Gwalchmai, listening to Jaun, also feared the worst for Arngrim. He was surprised and pleased to hear his familiar voice as they watched the rising bird.

  “Say rather that I have met the Xana and she belongs to me!”

  They looked up. Arngrim had approached noiselessly on the soft leaf mold beneath the tree. He was smiling.

  “See what I have found!”

  In his arms he bore lightly an unconscious girl. She was beautifully clothed in wispy garments embroidered in golden thread. Her hair was golden also and it hung down over Arngrim’s arm to brush his knees. She held a jeweled comb in one hand and water dripped from her clinging garments and from her tresses.

  Her face was that of a sleeping angel and strangely reminiscent toxGwalchmai of someone he had known.

  “Behold the Xana!”

  Jaun shrank back and made the sign of the horns at her. “Now El Cuelebre will surely come! We are all dead together; there is no use to run!”

  When Corenice saw her, she stepped between the pair and Gwalchmai. She noticed his keen scrutiny and misunderstood it, but he had already looked closely and he did not like what he saw.

  “Where did you meet her, Arngrim?”

  “She was looking into a clear pool and combing her hair. When I came up behind her, she turned quickly and fell into the water. I almost did not get her out, she struggled so. She was much afraid of me and I was even more afraid that she would drown.”

  “Xanas do not drown. They live in the water. She probably jumped in. That pool was her home!”

  “Jaun, I shall soon forget you were my oar mate. This is a human girl and when she opens her eyes I will have her tell you so. She is the most precious thing I have ever held in my arms. I think I am in love with her already!”

  “There is an easy way to tell,” said Gwalchmai. He would have stepped closer, but Corenice seemed to be in the way. “Under the bezel of my ring is a little chamber and in it is powdered moly. If she is a nymph, it will not harm or make any change in her any more than it would if she were human, hut if she has been enchanted, as I think she has been, for to my vision her outline is only a blur, then it will bring her back as she should be. No sorcerer’s spell can stand against moly. I will scatter a pinch of it on her.”

  Arngrim and the Basque looked skeptical. “Moly?” said the Varangian. “I never heard of it.” He peered into the opened ring.

  The opal was lifted back on tiny hinges and beneath it lay a pale-green powder.

  Arngrim clasped the girl tighter and backed away. “Leave her alone. I like her the way she is.”

  “I have heard of it,” Corenice broke hi unexpectedly. “One of those barbarian Greeks mentions it in a poem I heard him recite in Ithaca a long time ago. Let me see if I remember it—

  Stranger, pluck a sprig of moly Ere you tread on Circe’s Isle. Hermes’ moly, growing solely To undo enchanter’s wile.

  “Well, Arngrim, and you others, both Circe and Hermes are as dead now as—as Homer, but I know moly still grows. But not for you to use on a Xana, my husband! Here, Arngrim—!”

  In a flash, she snatched the ring out of Gwalchmai’s hand, leapt at Arngrim with a pinch of the power
between her fingers, sprinkled it on his hand, and slapped that hand, powder and all, upon the girl’s face and rubbed it in well, before anyone could move.

  “There!” she panted. “Now she is yours, Norseman! Take good care of your Xana!”

  She snapped back the bezel upon the rest of the powder and gave back the ring to Gwalchmai. He had hardly placed it again upon his finger before the girl opened her eyes.

  Now he could see her outlines sharp and plain. The blur he had noticed was gone, but other than that there was no change.

  She was as beautiful as before and just as wet. She did not seem to notice or to care. She was looking only at Arngrim and there was a light in her eyes that made his throat choke and his heart leap in his breast

  She raised her arms and put them around his neck and hugged him tightly. His ugly face was transfigured by delight.

  “I am Mairtre and now I am human again! The enchantment is gone, but I am here. If you want me I will be yours, handsome giant, for I vowed when I was spelled that whoever saved me, him would I wed!”

  “Handsome!” he groaned. “Damsel, you are still en-sorceled!”

  And Jaun crowed, “See! I was right! She was a Xana!”

  These are the true facts of the saga, which Arngrim did not tell to the skalds in Byzantium—and this was how he won his golden girL

  12

  Jor the Honor of T^oland

  What other adventures befell Arngrim and the wife he had so unexpectedly won, as they later made their way to Byzantium, form no part of the present tale, although they were recounted at length in the Hall of the Mercenaries.

  Gwalchmai and Corenice were not with them then. Yet, as the group traveled on through the pass,-certain other events took place that affected all and so should be mentioned.

  The pass narrowed still more, then unexpectedly widened into a little green meadow. Here was the pool where Arn-grin had found the girl, Mairtre, combing her hair. Near it was an ancient oak, decayed but not yet dead, and farther along the path were other such giants.