We are already past Braavigen, where numberless ships from the northern kingdoms lay, when Upsala’s King, Sigurd Ring, came, challenged by Harald Hildetand, who, old and grey, feared to die on a sick bed, and would fall in battle; and the mainland thundered like the plains of Marathon beneath the tramp of horses’ hoofs during the battle:[F] bards and female warriors surrounded the Danish King.  The blind old man raised himself high in his chariot, gave his horse free rein, and hewed his way.  Odin himself had due reverence paid to Hildetand’s bones; and the pile was kindled, and the King laid on it, and Sigurd conjured all to cast gold and weapons, the most valuable they possessed, into the fire; and the bards sang to it, and the female warriors struck the spears on the bright shields.  Upsala’s Lord, Sigurd Ring, became King of Sweden and Denmark:  so says the Saga, which sounded over the land and water from these coasts.

[Footnote F:  The battle of Braavalla.]

The memorials of olden times pass swiftly through our thoughts; we fly past the scene of manly exercises and great deeds in the olden times—­the ship cleaves the mighty waters with its iron paddles, from Skjaergaard to Skjaergaard.

STOCKHOLM.

* * * * *

We cast runes[G] here on the paper, and from the white ground the picture of Birger Jarl’s six hundred years old city rises before thee.

[Footnote G:  “To cast runes” was, in the olden time, to exercise witchcraft.  When the apple, with ciphers cut in it, rolled into the maiden’s lap, her heart and mind were infatuated.]

The runes roll, you see!  Wood-grown rocky isles appear in the light, grey morning mist; numberless flocks of wild birds build their nests in safety here, where the fresh waters of the Maelaren rush into the salt sea.  The Viking’s ship comes; King Agna stands by the prow—­he brings as booty the King of Finland’s daughter.  The oak-tree spreads its branches over their bridal chamber; at daybreak the oak-tree bears King Agna, hanged in his long golden chain:  that is the bride’s work, and the ship sails away again with her and the rescued Fins.

The clouds drive past—­the years too.

Hunters and fishermen erect themselves huts;—­it is again deserted here, where the sea-birds alone have their homes.  What is it that so frightens these numberless flocks? the wild duck and sea-gull fly screaming about, there is a hammering and driving of piles.  Oluf Skoetkonge has large beams bored down into the ground, and strong iron chains fastened across the stream:  “Thou art caught, Oluf Haraldson,[H] caught with the ships and crews, with which thou didst devastate the royal city Sigtuna; thou canst not escape from the closed Maelar lake!”

[Footnote H:  Afterwards called Saint Oluf.]

It is but the work of one night; the same night when Oluf Hakonson, with iron and with fire, burst his onward way through the stubborn ground; before the day breaks the waters of the Maelar roll there; the Norwegian prince, Oluf sailed through the royal channel he had cut in the east.  The stockades, where the iron chains hang, must bear the defences; the citizens from the burnt-down Sigtuna erect themselves a bulwark here, and build their new, little town on stock-holms.[I]