Flew through the thing, and those who nearest stood
Drew back as from a pestilent disease;
And when I looked around, their superstition
Had palsied every tongue, and blanched each cheek
So lately glowing with expectant joy. 
And then king Helge triumphed.  With a voice
As sad, as awful as the ghostly vala’s
In Vegtam’s song, when she for Odin sung
Of asas’ fate and grim Hel’s victory,
So sad he spoke:  “Though banishment or death
I could decree, by our ancestral laws
Against this crime, yet I’ll be mild as Balder,
Whose sacred dwelling thou hast so profaned. 
The western sea a wreath of islands holds,
Where Angantyr, the earl, is governor. 
As long as Bele lived the earl each year
His tribute paid, but ceased when Bele died. 
Go o’er the sea and drive this tribute in;
This penance thy audacity demands. 
’Tis said,” sneered he, with meanest mockery,
“That Angantyr hard-fisted is, and broods
Like dragon Fafner o’er his gold:  but who
Can stand ’gainst our new Sigurd, Fafner’s bane? 
Exploits more manly must thou undertake
Than luring maidens under Balder’s roof. 
When summer comes shall we expect you here
With all thy honor, first of all the tribute. 
If not, thou art to every man a felon,
And during life art outlawed through the land.” 
His judgment rendered, he dissolved the thing.

Ingeborg.

And your decision?

Fridthjof.

Have I aught to choose? 
Is not mine honor bound by his decree? 
And that will I redeem though Angantyr
His paltry gold doth hide in Nastrand’s flood. 
To-day will I depart.

Ingeborg.

And Ing’borg leave?

Fridthjof.

Nay, nay, I leave thee not, thou goest too.

Ingeborg.

Impossible!

Fridthjof.

O! hear me, ere thou answerest. 
Thy crafty brother seemeth to forget,
That Angantyr was my dear father’s friend,
As well as Bele’s.  Perhaps he’ll give
Without constraint what I demand; if not
A worthy advocate, a sharp one too,
Have I.  ’Tis always ready at my side. 
The gold he covets I’ll to Helge send,
And thus will I from sacrificial knife
Of this crowned hypocrite redeem us both. 
But we, my beauteous Ingeborg, will spread
O’er seas unknown Ellide’s willing sail,
She’ll kindly bear us to a friendlier strand
Where exiled love may safe asylum find. 
What is the North to me?  And what a race,
Which pales at every word of priest or king,
Whose shameless hands would pluck the living rose
From out the sanctuary of my heart? 
So, Freyja help, it shall not prosper them! 
The wretched slave is bound unto the turf
Where he was born, hut I will still be free,
Free as the mountain winds.  A little earth
From Bele’s grave and from my father’s taken,
Can find a place ,upon our ship, and that