"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."