Some of the company in the knights' hall were entertaining themselves with singing and lutes, but Junker Christopher had sat down to a grave game at chess with the Duke of Langeland. Sir Niels Brock, Sir Johan Papæ and their silent friend with the helmet, tried their fortune at dice and backgammon. Count Gerhard listened with the king, the Marsk, and the young knights, to the adventures and songs of the German minstrels. These foreign masters of song sought especially to entertain the king and his guests with lays composed in honour of all crowned heads, whom they lauded as their munificent patrons and protectors. At last they addressed themselves immediately to the king in a strain of somewhat exaggerated panegyric, particularly on his learning, and in the same metre and high-flown phrase in which the Minnesingers formerly sang the praises of their loves. Count Gerhard smiled, and the king at last became impatient. "No! this goes too far!" he exclaimed; "would you make me believe, Master Rumelant, that you are enamoured of me as though I were a fair maiden? No more of this! Sing to us, rather of the brave Nibélungen, and the hero Siégfred."
"As you command! most mighty prince! My generous and noble patron!" answered Master Rumelant, with a bow; but he had been thrown into such confusion by the king's displeasure at his flatteries, that he could recollect nothing perfectly, but jumbled different songs together. "Stop! let me!" interrupted Master Poppé, with his warrior-like voice, and he now began the bold and spirited German epic poem of the brave Nibélungen, in tones which rang through the hall. The lay gained great applause, but it was a long epic, which became wearisome by the monotony of the melody or recitative. When Poppé paused only for a moment to take breath, or recollect, Master Rumelant instantly took up the lay, and as soon as he made any mistake, or faultered, Master Poppé recommenced with renovated powers; and thus it seemed as though the poem would never be ended.
The king was, however, an attentive listener, and laughed once or twice right heartily at the naïve and vivid descriptions; but at last he grew tired, and cleared his throat several times. "Excellent! excellent! good sirs; thanks!" he said, interrupting the unwearied singers. "That is enough for one time. There is marrow and bone in your heroic lays, as well as in your warriors; they are almost as hard to despatch. Now we should like to hear a Danish song. We have, indeed, no such single heroic poem, unless it be our chronicles. In reality, they compose an epic which I trust will never be ended. Our war songs are but fragments of them, but they are therefore better suited for songs. They never flag, but go on briskly, and that I ought to like right well, since I am myself of a somewhat impetuous temper. We have, besides, no real master of the art as yet," he continued: "but our songs are national, and are sung both by knight and peasant. Where is the Drost?"
The Drost had been some time ago summoned from the hall, and no one knew where he was.
"Now Marsk Oluffsen! do you sing of our warriors and heroes!" said the king. "But have a care you split not the good arches here in our hall! I know your voice well."
"I would rather fight than sing songs for you, my liege!" answered the Marsk; "they say I sing like a growling bear, but if you desire it I will willingly growl you out a song." He then cleared his throat, and began in a bass voice as deep and hollow as from an abyss.
"It was young Ulf van Jern,
Unto the king went he,
My father's death for to avenge,
Your men will you lend me."[[8]]