proclaiming
Thy unmatched cruelty with frightful voices! 
Each of them was a god, and fair as Balder,
But now to earth and heaven, and to myself, a horror: 
Each is a monster, bow’d with chains of darkness. 
The hour’s at hand, the tardy hour of vengeance: 
Already blow I in war’s horn:  to combat,
Up, up ye mighty gods, and rescue Balder! 
There see I him, the hero youth, who only,
Arm’d with the tree of death by Odin’s maidens,
Can be—­so Fate decrees—­this Balder’s slayer. 
And he shall be it:  quickly shall he brandish
The life-destroying bough, if Asa Loke,
By mighty art and wonderful delusions,
Knows how to work the maidens to his purpose. 
He comes!  I will conceal myself, and listen.

Hother, and presently Loke—­the first dressed like a Norwegian peasant, with a hunting-spear in his hand; the other undistinguished.

Hother (he comes down from the rocks and unbinds the skiers {2} from his feet ere he steps forward on the scene).

Upon the oak’s summit,
A squirrel at play
Deceives with a rustle
The hunter so gay;
He starts, and, low crouching,
His spear he grasps tight,
And, swelling up, boundeth
His hand with delight.

Now quick—­be not daunted! 
He’s coming—­take heed! 
The bold bear, the old bear,
Doth hitherward speed. 
Oh, sound the most pleasant
This ear ever knew! 
He cometh—­a bigger
This weapon ne’er slew.

Thou sovereign of forests! 
Thou pride of thy race! 
Oh, fortunate hunter—­
Oh, glorious chase! 
Now quick! be not daunted,
He comes—­be prepared! 
Where is he, the savage? 
His bellow, who heard?

No more on the oak-top
The squirrel doth play;
Deceived has a rustle
The hunter so gay;
No sound as he listens
His hearing assails,
Save the pattering of leaves
That are moved by the gales.

There comes he—­where?  Oh, what a foolish stripling
Am I, who here about four days have wandered
In quest of a mere phantom!  Surely, Nanna,
Thou dost deceive me—­dost but prove thy lover;
And think’st thou, virtuous one, that if a godhead
Came down in light effulgent, and before thee
Knelt and laid heaven at thy feet—­Ha! think’st
Thou that fear, base doubt of Nanna’s faith and
Honour, would sully Hother’s breast?  I know thou
Lovest me—­thou hast avowed it:  what shall then
This wooer avail—­this wooer who must not be
Anger’d?  Why the deception?

Loke.  Hail, thou son of Hothbrod!

Hother (astonished).  Ha! scarcely do I know myself! 
By Odin,
I look more like a rugged elf than Hother. 
And who art thou, that knowest me? who art thou?

Loke.  My name is Vanfred!  When thy mother bore thee
I was at hand and swore unto thee friendship.

Hother.  Grim is thy visage, and thine eye doth promise,
But little good.  What dost thou seek?