. . .

Vaenwode ties down the sun-bird. He boils water over it in his little iron pot. He stirs the water with a golden rod, and he whispers as he stirs it:

“Gold, gold, go in.”

The water bubbles. The water roils.

“Gold, gold, go in,” he whispers as the hours pass. “Gold, gold, go in.”

The water sparks.

The rod sinks suddenly deep, as if the pot had lost its bottom.

It startles a snort from him; then a grim urgency possesses his lanky frame. He begins to feed Hans’ gold into the pot.

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