OUT OF THE MISTS OF TIME
469
stantly, but something else, something within me, apparently, over which I had no control.
I was able to stand aside, mentally, and analyze myself as the hot words leaped to my lips and the dark thoughts hurried through my brain. I was able to apply my student’s mind to the problem, even though it baffled me.
It was especially at night that I got opportunities to investigate this pas¬ sionate state of mind that would tem¬ porarily eclipse my better judgment, for often as I lay in bed I would feel the first throes of my senseless anger. It would grow stronger and stronger, until finally I would find myself com¬ pelled to leap up and pace the floor until the fit passed.
Then, late one evening, I got a flood of light upon the problem, which cleared it up completely, verified my worst suspicions, and made the awful predicament I was in completely plain to me at last. It was now evi¬ dent that I must abandon all hope.
I was seated at my desk on the eve¬ ning to which I have reference, having completed several hours of hard study on calculus. My mind was in the misty, sleepy state that follows a prolonged period of concentration. The sound of my little clock, jangling out the hour of midnight, seemed to reach me from a great distance off.
Allowing my eyes to wander idly to my open bedroom door, I was amazed to see a vaporous cloud like a bank of mist rolling about within the chamber. I got unsteadily to my feet and walked to the door, supporting myself there with a hand on each cas¬ ing. With eyes dimmed by astonish¬ ment I began to make out the details of a scene such as I am sure no man of this age has ever looked upon.
I saw a great feast-hall, dimly at first, but as clearly as a photograph when the mist had disappeared. It was a huge, rough room, with large
beams across the ceiling, which I judge must have been thirty or forty feet from the floor. The impression I had was that I stood on a small pri¬ vate balcony at one end of the room, and placed at a distance about half¬ way up from the floor.
In the center of the hall stood a long table, loaded with flagons and trenchers of heroic size. Around it sat a company of about fifty banquet¬ ers—big blond men whom I identified instantly as vikings of old. Faintly the sound of their revelry came to my ears. Many a rude jest and song in a tongue unfamiliar to me floated up to my gallery. Mingled with this was the bang and clash of the dishes, and a sound like that of hogs at a trough.
At one end of the table sat a great red-bearded man who was the king. I knew this the moment I set eyes upon him. Every proud line in his face showed it, as did every regal gesture that he made. By his side, in the place of honor, was a venerable old man, reverenced by all. At a word from the king, this graybeard took up an instrument like a harp, and sang.
As the sound drifted to me I knew the song was a saga of love and war: and the wild thrilling music affected the men even more than the ale they had quaffed. When the singer stopped, an uproar of approbation broke out. The king took a ring from his finger and gave it to the minstrel, while the diners cheered.
Then the drinking bout began in earnest: wilder and wilder grew the talk and singing, madder and madder grew the drinkers, and suddenly I noticed something that astounded me so that I wonder I did not faint away. Seated half-way down the board was a yellow-haired, yellow- bearded man that I knew to be none other than the Twentieth Century Eric Erieson! Save that the Eric I knew was clean-shaven, this viking
