"Quite easy could I fell thee,"
The noisy Atle cries:
"No one comes here, I tell thee,
But either fights or flies.
If peace thou ask'st, believe me,—
I fight, but am no churl,—
In friendship I'll receive thee,
And lead thee to the earl."
"Although I'm scarcely rested,"
Is Fridthjof's sharp reply,
"Our good swords must be tested,
Before for peace I cry."
Then swift the sun-brown fighter
His flashing sword-blade swung,
Bright glowed the runes and brighter
On Angervadil's tongue.
Blows fell without cessation,
Now deadly blows like rain,
And now in quick rotation
Each shield is cleft in twain.
Unhurt, with wrath unspoken
They stand within the ring,—
Now Atle's sword is broken
And Fridthjof's sword is king.
Said he: "A swordless foeman
I've no desire to slay;
But if you will, as yeomen,
We'll try another way."
As waves 'gainst waves are pushing,
And breaking crest on crest,
So on each other rushing,
They wrestled breast to breast.
They fought like two bears trying
Their strength on crust of snow,
Or, as o'er mad waves flying
The eagle meets his foe.
The firm earth trembled round them,
Though based on solid rock,
And oaks, though strong roots bound them,
Could scarce withstand the shock.
Their brows with sweat were beaded,
Their breasts heaved with a sound,
The brush and stones unheeded,
They scattered all around.
The twelve in expectation
Stood quaking on the sand;
Renowned through every nation
That struggle on the strand.
But Fridthjof was the stronger,
He felled his foe at last,
And said with fiery anger,
His knee on Atle's breast:
"Had I my good sword ready,
Thou berserk blackbeard, now
Thy miserable body
I'd straightway plunge it through."
"Go bring it! Who'll prevent thee?"
Is generous Atle's cry,
"And if it will content thee,
As now I'll quiet lie.
Why should it make me sorrow?
For all must Valhal see;
I go to-day—to-morrow
Perhaps thy turn will be."
Then Fridthjof quick returning,
Desired to end the fray;
Raised Angervadil burning,—
But Atle quiet lay.
The falling blade ne'er harmed him,
For Fridthjof struck the sand;
Such courage had disarmed him,
He took brave Atle's hand.
With gleeful admonition
Old Halvard swung his staff:
"For your battle-meal potation
There's nothing here to quaff;
Upon the board hot-smoking
The silver dishes glow;
A cold meal is provoking,
And thirst annoys me so.'