  Each day the great hall echoed to the sound of harpstrings and rang with praises of the great deeds of his sires, but naught could rouse Frithiof from his melancholy. Once more the Spring awoke with smiles; the blue sea was flecked with swelling sails of ships, and still his gloom remained unbroken. His thoughts ever dwelt on the happy days at Hilding’s abode, when the King’s child was his beloved companion. At last BjÖrn went to him and said: “Why does Frithiof sit like a wounded eagle in its eyrie? What is amiss with thee, my friend? Surely thou hast no lack of lands or goods; song and harp sound for thee by night and day; the mead horn passes from hand to hand. But vainly thy good steed stamps in his stall; vainly the hooded falcon screams for prey. See how ‘Ellida’ strains at her cable and spreads her wings, impatient to be free!” Then Frithiof clasped his friend’s hand and, shaking off his sorrow, embarked with his comrades in the dragon, which was soon speeding onward through the foaming waves. Helge and Halfdan were sitting on their father’s grave-mound near the sea, holding judgment for the people, when “Ellida” approached. Frithiof landed with his men and, entering the circle of warriors, thus addressed the two kings: “I stand here before ye, O Kings! as suitor for the hand of Ingeborg. Surely your dead father would have smiled upon our union, since ’twas by his wish that we grew up together under Hilding’s guidance, like two saplings with branches intertwined, whose tops Frigga winds about with silver thread. Of no royal race am I, ’tis true, but the fame of my sires is ofttimes sung in royal halls, as well ye know. Easily might I win for myself a kingdom and wear the golden circlet on my brow; but ’tis my choice rather to dwell in the land of my birth, my sword ever ready to defend the throne or the hut of the poor. On King Bele’s mound we stand; in the depths below he heareth and speaketh for me—‘Join ye the hands of Frithiof and Ingeborg!’” Frowning darkly, Helge rose and scornfully replied: “Not for a peasant’s son is our sister destined; none but a prince may hope to win her. Thou art called the mightiest hero in all the Northland; let that content thy pride, and aspire not to the hand of a maiden whose forefathers sprung from Odin himself. My kingdom needs not thy service; that shall be our own care. But if thou wouldst have a place at court among my hired warriors, that I will not deny thee.” Frithiof laughed grimly. “I be thy vassal? Nay—I am a man for myself, even as was my father. Out, Angurvadel, from thy sheath!” Bright flashed the blade in the sunlight, the runes glowing fiery red. “Now, Angurvadel, let us see if any shall deny that thou at least art high-born and noble! As for thee, King Helge, stood we not upon this sacred mound, I would smite thee to the dust! Take heed, hereafter, that thou come not too near my blade!” With one blow Frithiof clove in twain Helge’s golden shield, that hung upon an oak tree, and the two halves fell with a crash that awakened hollow echoes from the vault below. “Well struck, my sword!” cried Frithiof; “hide now thy gleam and dream thou of exploits more noble!” FRITHIOF’S wooing Terror seized Helge and his followers, and all looked on silently while Frithiof returned to his ship and was borne swiftly away over the water out to the deep blue sea. |
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