Bjarke rejoined:  “Warlike Hjalte, why dost thou call me so loud?  I am the son-in-law of Rolf.  He who boasts loud and with big words challenges other men to battle, is bound to be venturous and act up to his words, that his deed may avouch his vaunt.  But stay till I am armed and have girded on the dread attire of war.

“And now I tie my sword to my side, now first I get my body guarded with mail-coat and headpiece, the helm keeping my brows and the stout iron shrouding my breast.  None shrinks more than I from being burnt a prisoner inside, and made a pyre together with my own house:  though an island brought me forth, and though the land of my birth be bounded, I shall hold it a debt to repay to the king the twelve kindreds which he added to my honours.  Hearken, warriors!  Let none robe in mail his body that shall perish; let him last of all draw tight the woven steel; let the shields go behind the back; let us fight with bared breasts, and load all your arms with gold.  Let your right hands receive the bracelets, that they may swing their blows the more heavily and plant the grievous wound.  Let none fall back!  Let each zealously strive to meet the swords of the enemy and the threatening spears, that we may avenge our beloved master.  Happy beyond all things is he who can mete out revenge for such a crime, and with righteous steel punish the guilt of treacheries.

“Lo, methinks I surely pierced a wild stag with the Teutonic sword which is called Snyrtir:  from which I won the name of Warrior, when I felled Agnar, son of Ingild, and brought the trophy home.  He shattered and broke with the bite the sword Hoding which smote upon my head, and would have dealt worse wounds if the edge of his blade had held out better.  In return I clove asunder his left arm and part of his left side and his right foot, and the piercing steel ran down his limbs and smote deep into his ribs.  By Hercules!  No man ever seemed to me stronger than he.  For he sank down half-conscious, and, leaning on his elbow, welcomed death with a smile, and spurned destruction with a laugh, and passed rejoicing in the world of Elysium.  Mighty was the man’s courage, which knew how with one laugh to cover his death-hour, and with a joyous face to suppress utter anguish of mind and body!

“Now also with the same blade I searched the heart of one sprung from an illustrious line, and plunged the steel deep in his breast.  He was a king’s son, of illustrious ancestry, of a noble nature, and shone with the brightness of youth.  The mailed metal could not avail him, nor his sword, nor the smooth target-boss; so keen was the force of my steel, it knew not how to be stayed by obstacles.

“Where, then, are the captains of the Goths, and the soldiery of Hiartuar?  Let them come, and pay for their might with their life-blood.  Who can cast, who whirl the lance, save scions of kings?  War springs from the nobly born:  famous pedigrees are the makers of war.  For the perilous deeds which chiefs attempt are not to be done by the ventures of common men.  Renowned nobles are passing away.  Lo!  Greatest Rolf, thy great ones have fallen, thy holy line is vanishing.  No dim and lowly race, no low-born dead, no base souls are Pluto’s prey, but he weaves the dooms of the mighty, and fills Phlegethon with noble shapes.