"That is a wondrous song, and I could have listened longer. There is little therein that one may not be wiser in remembering."
"There is nought wiser; it is Odin's wisdom," said Harek.
Now the old hermit, Guerir, Neot's friend, sat on the stone bench beside the king, and he said:
"Hear the words of the bards, the wondrous 'triads' of old time."
And he chanted them in a strange melody, unlike aught I had ever heard. And they, the old savings, were wise as the "Havamal" itself. But he stopped ere long, saying:
"The English words will not frame the meaning rightly. I do no justice to the wisdom that is hidden."
Then Neot turned to the king, and said:
"Sing to Harek words from the book of Wisdom that we know. I think you can remember it well."
"I have not rhymed it," the king answered; "but sometimes the song shapes itself when it is needed."
He took Guerir's little harp and tuned it afresh and sang. And in the words were more wisdom than in the Havamal or in the song of the bards, so that I wondered; and Harek was silent, looking out to the sunset with wide eyes.