Yet should it escape, and flame abroad,
Then woe to each straw-roof’d dwelling of wood!
GESTUR.
Who is that wizard with cloak of grey
That speeds o’er forest and stream his way?
Who flies ’fore the wind, and not from the lance,
And darkens the sun’s beneficent glance?
SKIRNIR.
Thy riddle is easy, O Gestur blind!
’Tis the cloud compels the sun to yield: