My mother, in her finest robe, the same, in truth, in which she herself had been wed, stood by the door of the hall, which was cleared of kine and set with tables, giving and returning greetings.

Her arm was round me, who, as bridegroom, was clothed in new garments of woven wool through which ran a purple streak, the best that could be made in all the land.

Ragnar came up.
"They should be here," he said.

"The hour is over past." "Doubtless the fair bride has been long in decking herself," answered my father, looking at the sun.

"She will come presently." Still time went on, and the company began to murmur, while a strange, cold fear seemed to grip my heart.