  The two aged heroes died as they had hoped, within a short time of each other, and were buried as King Bele had bidden, the two princes being declared joint heirs to the throne by decree of the people; while Frithiof took possession of his heritage, FramnÄs. His lands were on the coast, and extended for three miles in each direction. Forests of birch crowned the mountain tops, whose slopes were covered with golden barley and waving rye, growing to the height of a man. Lakes teeming with fish mirrored the wooded heights. Through the forests, threaded with rushing streams, roamed noble stags, proud and stately as kings. On the rich meadows herds of cattle with sleek glossy hides cropped the green sward; while here and there roved flocks of sheep, like fleecy cloudlets slowly drifting across the blue vault of heaven. Ranged in two rows, twelve pairs of fiery coursers pawed impatiently in their stalls; shod with shining steel were their hoofs, their manes knotted with red. The great drinking-hall was so spacious that six hundred guests would scarcely fill it. Round the wall extended a table of polished oak, and on either side of the high-seat images of the gods were skilfully carved from elm wood, one representing the All-Father Odin, the other Frey, who rules over the rain and sunshine. Over the high-seat where Thorsten had sat for so many years a glossy black bearskin, with scarlet jaws and the claws tipped with silver, was thrown. Midway of the hall was the great hearth of smoothly polished stone, whence the dancing flames shot ceaselessly upward; and suspended around the walls, helm and shield and sword glittered in the reflection of the blaze. Rich indeed was the dwelling: abundance everywhere met the eye,—crowded presses, well-filled cellars and store-rooms; while many a jewel, spoil of many a conquest, lay hidden in close-locked chests. But the three most precious possessions of the house were famed throughout the land. Of these the first was a sword, called Angurvadel, or Brother of Lightning. Forged by dwarfs in some far Eastern land, Frithiof’s ancestors had wrought with it many heroic deeds. The hilt was of hammered gold, and the blade was covered with strange runes, the meaning of which was unknown save to those who forged it in the distant Orient. When Frithiof drew it from the sheath, it flashed like the lightning or the streaming Northern Lights. Moreover, a magic power belonged to this wondrous heirloom: so long as peace ruled the land the runes on the blade gleamed dull and pale, but when war prevailed they burned red as the comb of a fighting cock. Next to this sword in renown was an arm-ring of pure gold, the work of halting Vaunlund, the Vulcan of the North. Graved on it were the names of the holy gods and their castles, with the signs of the changing seasons, while crowning the circlet, as the sun crowns the heavens, was a splendid ruby. This ring had long been an heirloom of the house and had once been stolen by the robber Sote, who roved the seas pillaging and destroying. News came at last to Thorsten that Sote had caused himself to be buried with all his treasures in a walled-up mound on the shores of Britain; yet there his spirit found no rest, but haunted the place as a spectre. Forthwith Thorsten resolved to seek this ghostly visitant, and with Bele, who offered to accompany him, took ship and sailed away to the shore of Britain, where they soon found Sote’s place of burial. Like a sunken palace was the grave-mound, over which lay piled up vast heaps of earth and ruined stonework. Thorsten and Bele peered through a chink of the doorway into the vaulted depths. There stood the black viking ship, and high up on the mast squatted a grisly shape wrapped in a blue flaming mantle, its staring eyeballs rolling, while it vainly endeavored to scour the blood stains from a rusty sword. All about lay heaps of gold, and on the arm of the phantom gleamed Thorsten’s precious heirloom, the stolen arm-ring. Bele whispered to Thorsten, “Let us go down together and fight with this fiery spectre!” But half angrily Thorsten answered, “Nay, one against one was the custom of our fathers; alone will I strive with it.” Long they contended as to which should first encounter that ghastly foe, but the lot fell to Thorsten. One blow of his spear burst in the door, and he descended into the vault, while, shield before him and sword in hand, King Bele listened without. Wild chantings he heard at first, like some magic spell, then loud clashing sounds, as of swords crossed in conflict. Then came a horrible scream, followed by instant silence, and out staggered Thorsten, pale and distraught; but on his arm he bore the ring. Never in after days would he relate what had passed in those awful depths, and when questioned would turn away shuddering. But he was often wont to say, “Truly, ’twas dearly bought, this arm-ring. But once in my life have I trembled, and that was when I took it!” Last of the three family treasures was the good ship “Ellida.” Frithiof’s ancestor, Wiking, so it was said, returning once from a foray, discovered on his own shores a shipwrecked man. Tall he looked and nobly formed, with an open countenance, whose expression was constantly changing like the glancing of waves in the sunlight. Sea-green floated his hair, white as wave-foam his beard. A blue mantle enveloped his form, and the golden belt he wore was set with corals. Steering directly to the spot, Wiking rescued the unfortunate, took him to his home, and feasted him right nobly. But when at night the stranger was offered a bed he shook his head, smiling: “Fair is the wind and my ship a good one,” he said, “and many a mile I hope to leave behind me ere the break of day. Naught but thanks have I to offer thee in return for thy hospitality, for my wealth lies deep beneath the ocean wave. Yet in the morning it may be thou wilt find some gift from me upon the shore.” At daybreak Wiking hastened to the shore, and lo! with the swiftness of the sea-eagle darting upon its prey there came flying into the haven one of the warships commonly known as dragons. Not a soul was to be seen on board, neither steersman nor rowers; yet unerringly the rudder guided its winding course amid rocks and shoals. As it neared the land, the sails furled themselves, the anchor fell, and the slender vessel rested quietly upon the sandy beach. As Wiking stood gazing in astonishment at all this, voices sounded from the dancing waves. They chanted: The man thou didst rescue and shelter Was Ægir, the lord of the sea; He forgets not his debt. See—yon dragon He sendeth as token to thee. Royal, indeed, was the gift of the sea-god. The solid beams of the ship were not joined in the usual way, but grown together. Long and dragon-shaped it lay upon the water, the head reared high, wide jaws gleaming red with gold, the body speckled with blue and gold, and ending at the rudder in a coiling tail covered with silver scales. Black were the sails, with edgings of gold, and when each was full stretched, the ship flew like the storm wind, swifter than the sea-eagle. With all these treasures and more besides, Frithiof, next to the two kings, was the richest man in all the land. Kingly of nature was he, if not by birth, and gentle and noble in word and deed. Twelve mighty champions had he ever beside him, tried comrades of his dead father. Among these graybeards, like a rose set in a wreath of withered leaves, was a youth called BjÖrn, joyous as a child, yet with the strength of manhood and the wisdom of age. Frithiof had grown up with him, and together they had sworn blood-brotherhood. Sorrowfully amid these heroes sat Frithiof in the high-seat draining the mead horn at his father’s grave-feast, after the custom of his ancestors, while with a heavy heart he listened to the thundering hero-songs sounded in praise of the departed. |
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