Styrbiorn the Strong

five paces to make sure it was being followed. Styrbiorn was upon it ere it had gone twenty yards, and caught it by the horns. “Moldi,” he said, “how durst thou, when I want thee?” It was a yearling musk-ox, littler than common oxen, but heavy enough and strong enough to do with most men as it would; but with Styrbiorn, as was well seen as they tussled and strove together, it was very nicely matched. Round and round they swung for a while, trampling the ground, swaying and staggering back and forth, puffing and snorting both the one and the other, till Styrbiorn broke off the game and leaped backward several paces and there stood panting and laughing, facing his little ox. “Come on,” he shouted; and it put down its head and charged. Styrbiorn braced his whole frame to bear the onset, and by the sheer strength of him stood his ground. This bout they played over not twice nor thrice but a dozen times; wherein three times was Styrbiorn thrown, but all other times he was victor in their encounter. But whenever Styrbiorn was thrown, his little ox was careful not to trample nor hurt him, but shoved its nose into his face, breathing its sweet breath all about him, and then stood back for the charge as soon as he was gotten on his feet again. At length they stopped both. Styrbiorn sat on the ground propped on his two hands behind him, breathing hard. Moldi stood over him, nuzzling his hairy nose into Styrbiorn’s neck between jaw and collarbone. Styrbiorn rubbed his cheek on Moldi’s nose like a cat. In a minute he stood up. “To the howe,” he said. Moldi turned and set off the contrary way. Styrbiorn caught him, and with less violent tussling now, (for they were now both well blown and desired no longer sinew-testing in earnest but some show of it only to mind them of their sport), half dragged half coaxed him to the howe. There they rested together an hour or more, the one fitting heads to his arrows, the other chewing the cud. A mile or more eastward, on their left, rose the scree-slopes of Windbergsfell: southaway from beneath their feet wound Fyriswater amid the flats below Upsala, and there lay spread the far-stretching low country toward Sigtun and the sea, and westward the far mountains of Upland shadowy-gray in the light of morning.

When Moldi had taken his fill of chewing the cud, he stood up and butted Styrbiorn gently from behind. Styrbiorn sprang up and caught him by the horns, and again they fought and wrastled on the howe top, till Styrbiorn forced Moldi’s head round sideways and threw him down and held him there by main force, his face against his. A long time they lay so, Moldi ever and again putting forth spasmodic efforts to rise, Styrbiorn holding him down with all his might and laughing the while in his brown and furry ear.

At length Moldi lay quiet, as if to grant he was mastered as for this time. Styrbiorn let go, and rolled over on his back. His eyes were closed, his great and shapely arms flung out a-stretch on either side, his right hand burrowing and fondling among the warm soft depths of woolly hair under Moldi’s jowl, his left opening and shutting as if to ease the stiffness in his fingers after so much clutching on the horns. His chest, broad and deep as few men’s of full age, mounted and sank with slow regular and profound breaths. So he lay, with shut eyes and with lips parted a little like a dreamer’s who smiles in his sleep; and all the while knew not who was stolen up quietly behind him on the howe, and had all the while stood there looking down on that rough and tumble, the hard panting of boy and ox, the splendour of Styrbiorn’s strong limbs with every sinew strained and hard in the struggle: and stood there still, watching him in silence.

A tall lass she was, standing there over him, her dark gown gathered in one hand so that her shapely ankles showed below it. Her hair, tawny red, braided with gold cords into two thick trammels, reached to her knee at either side. High-bosomed she was, light of flank, clean-limbed, and with somewhat of almost manly presence and stature, yet graceful beyond all telling. The carriage of her was like the dragonhead of a ship of war treading turbulent seas, and the face of her (albeit she was yet scarce grown woman), of that kind and seeming which belike Queen Brynhild’s had of old, or Gudrun’s of Laxriverdale, and other women’s faces that were born to be the bane of men.

But this was not the lady Gudrun come from Iceland, nor yet Brynhild, Budli’s daughter, returned from her Hell-ride in these latter days and back from the dead, that stood with proud grave mouth and unsounded dark-brown eyes gazing on the might of Styrbiorn while he struggled with Moldi on his father’s howe; but Sigrid, Skogul-Tosti’s daughter out of Arland, the mightiest and noblest of all men of Sweden who lacked title of dignity, and she some few days since ridden from home with her father for feasting and guesting with King Eric Biornson.

Opening his eyes at last and seeing her, Styrbiorn sat up a little sullen-looking and shamefaced and gave her greeting. He gave Moldi a flick on the nose with the back of his hand, who forthwith lumbered up to his feet and down from the howe and away.

“This is a strange sport,” said Sigrid. “What manner of cow is this?”

“ ’Tis not a cow,” said Styrbiorn. “ ’Tis my bull. He cometh from the northlands, many days’ journey beyond Helsingland. His name is Moldi.”

He began tinkering again with his arrows, fitting heads to them. Sigrid watched, bending over his shoulder from behind. Styrbiorn took no more note of her than if she had