to slip down from their sleeping-rooms.  Straightway uncovering the hidden heap of weapons, each girded on his arms silently and then went to the palace.  Bursting into its recesses, they drew their swords upon the sleeping figures.  Many awoke; but, invaded as much by the sudden and dreadful carnage as by the drowsiness of sleep, they faltered in their resistance; for the night misled them and made it doubtful whether those they met were friends or foes.  Hjalte, who was foremost in tried bravery among the nobles of the king, chanced to have gone out in the dead of that same night into the country and given himself to the embraces of a harlot.  But when his torpid hearing caught from afar the rising din of battle, preferring valour to wantonness, he chose rather to seek the deadly perils of the War-god than to yield to the soft allurements of Love.  What a love for his king, must we suppose, burned in this warrior!  For he might have excused his absence by feigning not to have known; but he thought it better to expose his life to manifest danger than save it for pleasure.  As he went away, his mistress asked him how aged a man she ought to marry if she were to lose him?  Then Hjalte bade her come closer, as though he would speak to her more privately; and, resenting that she needed a successor to his love, he cut off her nose and made her unsightly, punishing the utterance of that wanton question with a shameful wound, and thinking that the lecherousness of her soul ought to be cooled by outrage to her face.  When he had done this, he said he left her choice free in the matter she had asked about.  Then he went quickly back to the town and plunged into the densest of the fray, mowing down the opposing ranks as he gave blow for blow.  Passing the sleeping-room of Bjarke, who was still slumbering, he bade him wake up, addressing him as follows: 

“Let him awake speedily, whoso showeth himself by service or avoweth himself in mere loyalty, a friend of the king!  Let the princes shake off slumber, let shameless lethargy begone; let their spirits awake and warm to the work; each man’s own right hand shall either give him to glory, or steep him in sluggard shame; and this night shall be either end or vengeance of our woes.

“I do not now bid ye learn the sports of maidens, nor stroke soft cheeks, nor give sweet kisses to the bride and press the slender breasts, nor desire the flowing wine and chafe the soft thigh and cast eyes upon snowy arms.  I call you out to the sterner fray of War.  We need the battle, and not light love; nerveless languor has no business here:  our need calls for battles.  Whoso cherishes friendship for the king, let him take up arms.  Prowess in war is the readiest appraiser of men’s spirits.  Therefore let warriors have no fearfulness and the brave no fickleness:  let pleasure quit their soul and yield place to arms.  Glory is now appointed for wages; each can be the arbiter of his own renown, and shine by his own right hand.  Let nought here be tricked out with wantonness:  let all be full of sternness, and learn how to rid them of this calamity.  He who covets the honours or prizes of glory must not be faint with craven fear, but go forth to meet the brave, nor whiten at the cold steel.”