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night dusk. And it was plain to Sig Clawhand that Sigurd’s hammer now fell slower and with less force.
    And he saw the droop of Sigurd’s shoulders and knew that Mimir strode back and forth by that spring of water which men said gave great knowledge to those daring to drink of it.
    The wind blew cold again, and it was the cold of winter instead of, rightfully, the freshness of spring. So Sig Clawhand bunched together, his arms about his upthrust knees, making a ball of himself. He longed for the warmth of the forge side, but he knew better than to seek it now.
    Then he saw two feet standing just at the level of his eyes as he curled so. Those feet wore the rough-finished hide of journey boots. As he raised his head slowly, he saw a kirtle of the same color as the sky when a storm draws near, and the sweep of a gray cloak. Higher still he looked, to a hood which was blue and which overhung a dark face. And in that face was a single eye for seeing, the other being covered with a patch of linen stuff.

    Yet that one eye saw into Sig so that he wished to run from it, only the power of that figure held him where he was, shivering even more than when the icy wind reached him.
    “Go to Sigurd King’s-Son and bid him come out. There is one here who will speak with him.”
    Though the stranger’s voice was low there was no denying the order it gave. Sig got to his feet quickly and backed into the forge, fearing to look away from the eye which held him. Not until he was within the shadow of that doorway was he free of the bond it had laid upon him. He went to the anvil where Sigurd stood tall, the fire giving a red light to his face and his long yellow hair, looped back while he worked with tongs.
    And, though he was indeed the King’s son, he wore but the coarse kirtle, the leathern apron, the straw footgear which were the dress not even of a master smith but of a common laborer. Yet one looking upon him, Sig thought—any man with eyes in his head—would know this was one of kingly blood, worthy to be shield-raised when a crown was offered.
    Sigurd rested the hammer against the edge of the anvil and leaned forward to see his work. But there was a frown on his tired face as if what he looked upon pleased him very little. Sig dared then to say, “Master, there is one at the door who would speak with you.”
    The frown was darker yet as Sigurd swung around. Sig retreated a step or two, even though Sigurd King’s-Son was not one to cuff for little reason, but was kinder than most men Sig had known in his short life.
    “I shall speak with no man until this task—” Sigurd King’s-Son’s voice was as hard as the metal he worked upon.
    Then came other words which carried from the doorway. Though they did not ring as loud as Sigurd’s, still one could hear them plainly.
    “With me will you speak, son of Sigmund of the Volsungs!”
    Sigurd King’s-Son turned and stared, as did Sig also. Though the night dusk had come, yet they could plainly see the stranger as if his gray clothing and blue hood had light woven into them.
    Then Sigurd dropped the hammer and went to face him, and Sig dared to follow a pace behind. This was as brave a deed as he had ever dared in his whole lifetime. For this stranger had that about him to make him seem more fearsome than Mimir.
    The stranger unwrapped the fold of cloak laid about his right arm. He was carrying in the cloak pieces of dull metal. That is, they seemed dull, until the light of the forge fell upon them, and then they glittered like the small jewels Mimir set into the hilt of kings’ swords.
    “Son of the Volsungs, take your heritage and use it well!”
    Sigurd King’s-Son put forth both his hands and took the shards of metal from the stranger as if he half feared to touch what he now held, his hands even shaking a little. Sig could see that the shards were parts of a broken sword.
    But the stranger was looking now at Sig, so the boy tried to raise his crooked hand to shield his