“Ellide is restless upon the main,—­
She frets and she chafes at her cable chain;
Lie still my treasure! 
Our Fridthjof is peaceable.  Strife is no pleasure.

“Who dies on his pallet,, is dead indeed;
By the lance, as did Odin, we’ll die, if need,—­
And thus ensure us
A welcome to Hel, and heaven secure us.”

Then Fridthjof unloos’d the dragon,—­and proud,
With full swelling canvas, the waves she plowed,
And swiftly over
The bay to the palace she bore the lover.

The kings were at Bele’s grave met that day,—­
To administer justice and counsel weigh;
Fridthjof advances,—­
His voice sounds afar like clashing lances.

“Ye kings, lovely Ing’borg, the people’s pride,
I choose, from all women, to be my bride;
The king intended
Our lives thus united in one should be blended.

“He reared us together in Hilding’s sight,—­
As two forest saplings whose tops unite,—­
A golden cover
Of lace bindeth Freyja the green tops over.

“My sire was a peasant, no earl nor king,—­
Yet his memory will live while the poets sing;
In runic story
The grave-mounds are telling my ancestors’ glory.

“I could easily win me a crown and land,
But choose to remain on my native strand: 
In battle wielding
My sword for the king, and the peasant shielding.

“On king Bele’s grave we are standing now,
He hears every word in the grave below,
With me he pleadeth,—­
A dead father’s counsel a wise son heedeth.”

Then Helge uprose, and replied with scorn,
“Our sister was not for a peasant born,
To kings ’tis given
To strive for our Ingeborg, daughter of heaven.

“You boastfully call yourself chief of swords,—­
Win men by violence, women bv words;
Boast not of slaughter,
For arrogance winneth not Odin’s daughter.

“My kingdom doth not seek protection from thee,
I shield it myself.  My man wouldst thou be,—­
A situation
Among my domestics befits thy station.”

“Thy servant! no, never!” was Fridthjof’s reply,
“My father had never a master—­shall I? 
From thy silver dwelling
Now fly, Angervadil, the insult repelling.”

In sunshine now glitters the blue steel blade,—­
Displaying its letters in flaming red. 
“My good sword loyal,
Thy lineage at least,” said Fridthjof, “is royal.

“And were it not now for the high grave’s renown,
Right here would I hew thee, swarthy king, down: 
Yet will I teach thee
To come not again where my sword can reach thee.”

So saying, be severed at one fell blow
The gold shield of Helge which hung on a bough. 
It fell asunder,—­
Its clang on the grave-mound was echoed under.

“Well done, Angervadil. lie still and dream
Of high achievements,—­ meanwhile the gleam
Of rune-fires paling! 
And now we’ll go home o’er the blue waters sailing.”