In like wise spake other of the Burgdalers; and Folk-might was kind and blithe with them, and he said:
“Friends, forget ye not that the way is no longer from you to us than it is from us to you. One half of this matter it is for you to deal with.”
“True is that,” said Red-beard of the Knolls, “but look you, Folk-might, we be but simple husbandmen, and may not often stir from our meadows and acres; even now I bethink me that May is amidst us, and I am beginning to be drawn by the thought of the haysel. Whereas thou—” (and therewith he reddened) “I doubt that thou hast little to do save the work of chieftains, and we know that such work is but little missed if it be undone.”
Thereat Folk-might laughed; and when the others saw that he laughed, they laughed also, else had they foreborne for courtesy’s sake.
But Folk-might answered: “Nay, chief of the Sickle, I am not altogether a chieftain, now we have gotten us peace; and somewhat of a husbandman shall I be. Moreover, doubt ye not that I shall do my utmost to behold the fair Dale again; for it is but mountains that meet not.”
Now spake Face-of-god to Folk-might, smiling and somewhat softly, and said: “Is all forgiven now, since the day when we first felt each other’s arms?”
“Yea, all,” said Folk-might; “now hath befallen what I foretold thee in Shadowy Vale, that thou mightest pay for all that had come and gone, if thou wouldest but look to it. Indeed thou wert angry with me for that saying on that eve of Shadowy Vale; but see thou, in those days I was an older man than thou, and might admonish thee somewhat; but now, though but few days have gone over thine head, yet many deeds have abided in thine hand, and thou art much aged. Anger hath left thee, and wisdom hath waxed in thee. As for me, I may now say this word: May the Folk of Burgdale love the Folk of Silverdale as well as I love thee; then shall all be well.”
Then Face-of-god cast his arms about him and kissed him, and turned away toward Stone-face and Hall-face his brother, where they stood at the head of the array of the Face; and even therewith came up the Alderman somewhat sad and sober of countenance, and he pushed by the War-leader roughly and would not speak with him.
And now blew up the horns of the Shepherds, and they began to move on amidst the shouting of the men of Silverdale; yet were there amongst the Woodlanders those who wept when they saw their friends verily departing from them.
But when they of the foremost of the Host were gotten so far forward that the men of the Face could begin to move, lo! there was Redesman with his fiddle amongst the leaders; and he had done a man’s work in the day of battle, and all looked kindly on him. About him on this morn were some who had learned the craft of singing well together, and knew his minstrelsy, and he turned to these and nodded as their array moved on, and he drew his bow across the strings, and straightway they fell a-singing, even as it might be thus:
Back again to the dear Dale where born was the kindred,
Here wend we all living, and liveth our mirth.
Here afoot fares our joyance, whatever men hindred,
Through all wrath of the heavens, all storms of the earth.O true, we have left here a part of our treasure,
The ashes of stout ones, the stems of the shield;
But the bold lives they spended have sown us new pleasure,
Fair tales for the telling in fold and on field.For as oft as we sing of their edges’ upheaving,
When the yellowing windows shine forth o’er the night,
Their names unforgotten with song interweaving
Shall draw forth dear drops from the depths of delight.Or when down by our feet the grey sickles are lying,
And behind us is curling the supper-tide smoke,
No whit shall they grudge us the joyance undying,
Remembrance of men that put from us the yoke.When the huddle of ewes from the fells we have driven,
And we see down the Dale the grey reach of the roof,
We shall tell of the gift in the battle-joy given,
All the fierceness of friends that drave sorrow aloof.Once then we lamented, and mourned them departed;
Once only, no oftener. Henceforth shall we fling
Their names up aloft, when the merriest hearted
To the Fathers unseen of our life-days we sing.
Then was there silence in the ranks of men; and many murmured the names of the fallen as they fared on their way from out the Marketplace of Silverstead. Then once more Redesman and his mates took up the song:
Come tell me, O friends, for whom bideth the maiden
Wet-foot from the river-ford down in the Dale?
For whom hath the goodwife the ox-wagon laden
With the babble of children, brown-handed and hale?Come tell me for what are the women abiding,
Till each on the other aweary they lean?
Is it loitering of evil that thus they are chiding,
The slow-footed bearers of sorrow unseen?Nay, yet were they toiling if sorrow had worn them,
Or hushed had they bided with lips parched and wan.
The birds of the air other tidings have borne them—
How glad through the wood goeth man beside man.Then fare forth, O valiant, and loiter no longer
Than the cry of the cuckoo when May is at hand;
Late waxeth the spring-tide, and daylight grows longer,
And nightly the star-street hangs high o’er the land.Many lives, many days for the Dale do ye carry;
When the Host breaketh out from
