  Spring is come once more; birds warble in the treetops; freed from their icy bonds, the streams leap gaily downward to the vales below; the roses part their delicate sheaths and blossom red as Frigga’s cheeks. King Ring will now go hunting, and forthwith a joyous stir pervades the court. Bows twang, quivers rattle, fiery coursers paw the ground, the hooded falcon screams for its victim, and scarce can the huntsmen keep in leash the eager hounds. Fair as Frigga, dazzling as the battle-maiden Rota, sits the Queen upon her milk-white steed like a star on a summer cloud. Her hunting dress is of green, embroidered with gold, and blue plumes wave from her velvet cap. Led by the royal pair, the gay train wends its way into the forest, and soon the sport begins. Loud bay the hounds; up mount the hawks into the clear sky; horns sound; the frightened game seeks lair and covert; and the eager huntsmen scatter in pursuit. King Ring has fallen behind; old and feeble, he can no longer follow the lengthening chase, while beside him silent and thoughtful, rides his guest. At last they reached a rocky glen shut in by thick-clustering trees and thickets, and here the King dismounted from his courser, saying: “Full weary am I, stranger; here will I rest me in this pleasant spot.” “Nay, sleep not on the cold hard ground,” replied the other; “I had better lead thee back to thy own halls.” “Sweet slumber comes when least expected; ’tis the way of the gods,” said Ring. “Surely thou dost not grudge thy host an hour of rest!” Without further words, the stranger spread his cloak upon the ground and seated himself on a fallen tree-trunk, while Ring, stretching himself out upon the mantle, laid his head against the other’s knees. His eyes closed and soon he slept, sweetly as an infant cradled in its mother’s arms. As the stranger gazed gloomily down on the face of the King, he heard a rustling in the branches above him to the left, and lifting his eyes he saw a coal-black bird, which began to sing: Haste thee, Frithiof, slay the dotard, with one sword-stroke grant him rest! Take the Queen; she’s thine; her sacred kiss of plighted troth she gave. Here no human eye can see thee—silent is the deep, dark grave! Scarce had the sound ceased when from a bough on the right, a snow-white bird began: Though no human eye should see thee, Odin would the death-stroke view. Wouldst thou murder him in slumber? Cowardly thy bright sword stain? Know, whate’er besides thou winnest, hero-fame thou ne’er shalt gain! Thus sang the two birds, while contending thoughts struggled within the listener. Suddenly he seized his sword by the handle and flung it far from him into the shadow of the forest. Whereupon the black bird, with heavy flapping of its wings, flew back to the dark halls of Night, the abode of perjurers and assassins; while, blithely warbling, upward the white bird took its flight and vanished at last in the blue of heaven. At that moment the King awoke and rising to his feet, said: “Sweet indeed hath been my slumber. Well they rest whom valor’s sword doth guard. But where is thy war blade, stranger? Methought the Brother of Lightning never left thy side. Say, who hath parted you?” “Little boots it,” answered the other; “swords are plenty in the Northland. The sword is not always a good companion. Its tongue is sharp and it speaketh few words of peace. In steel there dwells an evil spirit, sprung from Loke’s dark abode, to whom not even sleep is sacred, nor the silver locks of age.” “Hearken, youth!” began the King. “I slept not. ’Twas but to try thee I did feign to slumber—a fool is he who trusts a man or a blade untried. Thou art Frithiof! I knew thee even when thou didst cross my threshold. But wherefore didst thou creep nameless and in such disguise into my palace? Wherefore, if not to rob me of my wife? Honor comes not nameless to the banquet, Frithiof! Ever open-faced she meets men’s glances, clear as sunlight is her shield. The fame of Frithiof’s deeds has reached us,—a terror both of gods and men; careless alike of cloven shield or burning temple; the mightiest warrior known in all the land. And this bold hero, this fierce viking, creeps, a beggar, to our hall! Nay, cast not down thy eyes before me. I, too, have once been young and felt as thou. Youth, well I know, hath fiery passions. Much have I thought on thee, O Frithiof. I have pitied and have pardoned thee. Hearken now! I am growing old and feeble, and soon for me the grave shall open. Then take unto thyself my kingdom and my wife. Until that time, be thou a son to me and guard my house as thou hast done before. And now, my son, let there be no more feud between us!” “Not as a thief did I enter thy halls, O King,” replied Frithiof proudly. “Had I come to seize thy Queen, who could have withstood me? ’Twas but to behold once again her who before the altar gave me her betrothal kiss. But ah, what slumbering fires my rashness hath awakened! Too long already have I tarried. Upon my head the gods have poured their wrath. Even the gentle Balder, lover of all mankind, spurns my prayers. ’Twas I who burned his temple. ‘Wolf in the Sanctuary,’ am I called. All joy ceases when my name is spoken. The child clings trembling to its father’s knees. Once more will I seek the broad, free ocean, whither earth and man have banished me. Out, out, my dragon! Too long in idleness thou hast lain. Again to the storm wind shalt thou spread thy pinions, and bathe thy black breast in the dashing spray! All—all on earth is lost to me forever; the tempest’s roar, the clash of arms shall whisper comfort to my soul once more! So will I live, so will I fighting fall; and mounting then to Odin’s throne, the gods, appeased, shall speak my pardon.” |
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