There in the dim hut with the apple-green twilight dimming the fells Biorn stood trembling on the brink of the half-world, the woman huddled on the floor, her hand shading her eyes as if she were looking to a far horizon.

Her body shook with gusts of passion, and the voice that came from her was not her own.

Never so long as he lived did Biorn forget the terrible hour when that voice from beyond the world spoke things he could not understand.

"I have been snowed on with snow," it said, "I have been beaten with the rain, I have been drenched with the dew, long have I been dead." It spoke of kings whose names he had never heard, and of the darkness gathering about the Norland, and famine and awe stalking upon the earth.
Then came a whisper from Leif asking the fortune of the young prince of Hightown.
"Death," said the weird-wife, "death--but not yet.

The shears of the Norns are still blunt for him, and Skuld has him in keeping." There was silence for a space, for the fit was passing from Katla.
But the voice came again in broken syllables.