She has mast and sail and one steering oar, but neither rowlocks nor other oars to fit in them.

One of the men is pacing quietly up and down the sand, as if on the quarterdeck of a ship, and the other rests against the boat's gunwale.
"Nigh time," says one, glancing at the fringe of weed which the tide is beginning to leave.
"Ay, nigh, and I would it were past and over.

It is a hard doom." "No harder than is deserved.

The doom ring and the great stone had been the end in days which I can remember.

That was the old Danish way." The other man nods.
"But the jarl is merciful, as ever." "When one finds a coiled adder, one slays it.