Then spake the elder of days:  “Hearken now, Sigurd, and hear;
    Time was when I gave thy father a gift thou shalt yet deem dear,
    And this horse is a gift of my giving:—­heed nought where thou mayst
      ride: 
    For I have seen thy fathers in a shining house abide,
    And on earth they thought of its threshold, and the gifts I had to
      give;
    Nor prayed for a little longer, and a little longer to live.”

    Then forth he strode to the mountains, and fain was Sigurd now
    To ask him many a matter:  but dim did his bright shape grow,
    As a man from the litten doorway fades into the dusk of night;
    And the sun in the high-noon shone, and the world was exceeding bright.

    So Sigurd turned to the river and stood by the wave-wet strand,
    And the grey horse swims to his feet and lightly leaps aland,
    And the youngling looks upon him, and deems none beside him good. 
    And indeed, as tells the story, he was come of Sleipnir’s blood,
    The tireless horse of Odin:  cloud-grey he was of hue,
    And it seemed as Sigurd backed him that Sigmund’s son he knew,
    So glad he went beneath him.  Then the youngling’s song arose
    As he brushed through the noon-tide blossoms of Gripir’s mighty close,
    Then he singeth the song of Greyfell, the horse that Odin gave,
    Who swam through the sweeping river, and back through the toppling
      wave.

    Regin telleth Sigurd of his kindred, and of the Gold that was
    accursed from ancient days.

    Now yet the days pass over, and more than words may tell
    Grows Sigurd strong and lovely, and all children love him well. 
    But oft he looks on the mountains and many a time is fain
    To know of what lies beyond them, and learn of the wide world’s gain. 
    And he saith:  “I dwell in a land that is ruled by none of my blood;
    And my mother’s sons are waxing, and fair kings shall they be and good;
    And their servant or their betrayer—­not one of these will I be. 
    Yet needs must I wait for a little till Odin calls for me.”

    Now again it happed on a day that he sat in Regin’s hall
    And hearkened many tidings of what had chanced to fall,
    And of kings that sought their kingdoms o’er many a waste and wild,
    And at last saith the crafty master: 
                                        “Thou art King Sigmund’s child: 
    Wilt thou wait till these kings of the carles shall die in a little
      land,
    Or wilt thou serve their sons and carry the cup to their hand;
    Or abide in vain for the day that never shall come about,
    When their banners shall dance in the wind and shake to the war-gods’
      shout?”