“Monsters I behold taking swift leaps and flinging themselves over the night places.  The demon is at war, and the unholy throng, devoted to the mischievous fray, battles in the mid-thoroughfare.  Prodigies of aspect grim to behold pass by, and suffer no mortal to enter this country.  The ranks galloping in headlong career through the void bid us stay our advance in this spot; they warn us to turn our rein and hold off from the accursed fields, they forbid us to approach the country beyond.  A scowling horde of ghosts draws near, and scurries furiously through the wind, bellowing drearily to the stars.  Fauns join Satyrs, and the throng of Pans mingles with the Spectres and battles with fierce visage.  The Swart ones meet the Woodland Spirits, and the pestilent phantoms strive to share the path with the Witches.  Furies poise themselves on the leap, and on them huddle the Phantoms, whom Foreboder (Fantua) joined to the Flatnoses (Satyrs), jostles.  The path that the footfarer must tread brims with horror.  It were safer to burden the back of the tall horse.”

Thereon Ragnar declared that he was a slave of the king, and gave as reason of his departure so far from home that, when he had been banished to the country on his shepherd’s business, he had lost the flock of which he had charge, and despairing to recover it, had chosen rather to forbear from returning than to incur punishment.  Also, loth to say nothing about the estate of his brother, he further spoke the following poem: 

“Think us men, not monsters; we are slaves who drove our lingering flocks for pasture through the country.  But while we took our pastime in gentle sports, our flock chanced to stray and went into far-off fields.  And when our hope of finding them, our long quest failed, trouble came upon the mind of the wretched culprits.  And when sure tracks of our kine were nowhere to be seen, dismal panic filled our guilty hearts.  That is why, dreading the penal stripe of the rod, we thought it doleful to return to our own roof.  We supposed it safer to hold aloof from the familiar hearth than to bear the hand of punishment.  Thus we are fain to put off the punishment; we loathe going back and our wish is to lie hid here and escape our master’s eye.  This will aid us to elude the avenger of his neglected flock; and this is the one way of escape that remains safe for us.”

Then Swanhwid gazed intently, and surveying his features, which were very comely, admired them ardently, and said: 

“The radiant flashing of thine eyes is eloquent that thou art of kingly and not of servile stock.  Beauty announces blood, and loveliness of soul glitters in the flash of the eyes.  A keen glance betokens lordly birth, and it is plain that he whom fairness, that sure sign of nobleness, commends, is of no mean station.  The outward alertness of thine eyes signifies a spirit of radiance within.  Face vouches for race; and the lustre of forefathers is beheld