  It was midnight. Low across the mountains burned the blood-red sun, which in far northern Scandinavia never sets on the longest day of the year. Neither day nor night was it—an awful twilight reigned. Within the temple Balder’s great feast was being celebrated. High in the air shot the flames from the sacred hearthstone, while pale, white-bearded priests raked the brands till showers of crackling sparks flew upward. Clad in his royal robes, Helge presided at the altar. Suddenly the clash of arms sounded without, and a voice was heard: “BjÖrn, hold fast the door! Let none escape! If any strive by force to pass thee, cleave his skull!” Helge grew deadly pale; he knew that voice too well. Then in strode Frithiof and addressed him: “Here is the tribute thou didst order me to bring thee from Augantyr. Take it! And now, for life or death we’ll strive before this altar. One of us twain must burn on Balder’s pyre. Shieldless we’ll fight and thou, as befits a King, shalt have first stroke. But beware, I say, for I strike second. Nay—gaze not fearfully about, nor seek escape, King Fox! Caught in thy hole art thou at last. Remember FramnÄs that thou didst lay waste, and think of Ingeborg’s cheeks, blanched by thee!” Beside himself with fury, Frithiof tore the heavy purse of gold from his belt and hurled it at the head of the King, who straightway sank swooning on the altar steps, blood gushing from his mouth and nose. “What! canst thou not bear the weight of thine own gold?” shouted Frithiof. “Shame! shame! thou coward King! Truly my sword is far too noble for thee, nor shall it taste of blood so base as thine. Silence, ye pale priests of moonlight, nor dare to lift your sacrificial knives! Back, back, I say, for thirsty grows my blade!” He lifted his eyes to the image of Balder. “Thou shining god, frown not so darkly on me!” Then, perceiving the arm-ring he had given to Ingeborg, his anger blazed up fiercer than before. “Nay—by thy leave,” he cried; “that ring came not in lawful fashion on thy arm! Not for thee did Vaunlund forge its wonders; and he who is its master claims his own.” He pulled at the ring, but it seemed grown fast to Balder’s arm. Putting forth all his strength, at last he tore it loose; but therewith down crashed the image of the god into the fire below. Higher and higher leaped the flames, till beam and rafter kindled. Horror-stricken, Frithiof stood for a moment motionless; then turning to the door, he shouted: “Open, BjÖrn! Let all depart! The feast is over. The temple blazes; bring water! Hasten, all, to quench the flames!” Quickly a chain of men to the sea is formed. From hand to hand the buckets fly, while high up among the rafters stands Frithiof, calm amid the mounting flames, and directs his comrades. But vain are all their efforts. The golden plates of the roof melt and drop down into the fiery sands. “All is lost!” shout the people. “See the red fire-cock, how he stands upon the roof-tree and ever wider spreads his glowing wings!” A strong wind arose and whirled the flaming brands into the treetops, dry from the summer heats. Raging from branch to branch it leaped, and soon the whole grove was one sea of fire. When morning broke, Balder’s Grove and Temple lay in ashes, while Frithiof sat within his dragon ship and wept. |
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