Then to Frithiof his son, he said: “The years have whispered many a counsel in my ear for thee, my son. As Odin’s birds hover about the burial mound, so do the teachings of experience linger on the lips of age. This above all else lay thou to heart: honor the gods. From them alone spring all blessing and prosperity, even as it is they who send the storm-wind and the life-giving sun-rays. They gaze into the heart’s most secret depths, whither no man’s eye can penetrate. Avoid evil: long years must oft do penance for one hour’s sin. Obey the King: one must be lord over all if the land would prosper; the night hath many lights; the day but one; willingly should the better man do homage to the best.
“One handle only hath the sword; he who grasps it elsewhere wounds his hand. Strength is a gift of the gods; but without judgment, force is of small avail. The bear has the strength of twelve men, yet he is slain by one. Against the sword-thrust hold the shield; against violence, the law. Guard thy heart from pride; few are moved to fear thereby, but all to hate. The more arrogant thou growest, the nearer is thy fall. Many have I seen soar high, who now must go on crutches. Praise not the day before its end, the mead before ’tis drunk, nor the counsel before ’tis proved. Youth is prone to trust the lightest word; but battle tests the value of a blade, and friendship is tried by need.
“Trust neither the ice of a night nor the snows of Spring. It is true of all men that strength of body and mind must pass away, but the fame of an upright man lives on forever. Therefore, O my son, resolve only what is noble, do only what is right.”
So spake the aged heroes, whose sage warnings are still passed from mouth to mouth in the Northland. They further charged their sons to perpetuate the friendship that had bound them together, through life, in weal and woe.
“Ever back to back we stood when danger threatened,” said King Bele, “and if it came still closer, then with one shield we met it. Hold fast together as one man, ye three, and never shall the Northland see your overmatch; for strength bound to kingly rank and power is like the steel rim that encircles the shield of gold. Fail not to greet for me my fair rose Ingeborg, who in peace and quiet hath bloomed as becomes a royal maiden. Shield her well with brotherly love and loyalty, that no rude tempest bear away my tender flower. Be thou a father to her, Helge; guard her as your own child, yet forget not that harsh constraint will oft revolt a noble heart, which by gentleness may easily be guided in the path of virtue and of custom. Let our weary bodies be laid to rest beneath two grave-mounds, on either side of the stream, that its rushing waters may chant for us eternal praises of the heroes. Oft at the midnight hour, when the pale moon sheds her silvery splendors and the cooling dews descend upon our mounds, shall thou and I, my Thorsten, discourse of olden days across the flood, and our voices will mingle with the murmuring of the waves. And now, dear sons, farewell! farewell! Leave us in peace, that far from the court we may prepare ourselves to enter into the glories of Valhalla.”
Chapter IV
Frithiof’s Inheritance
The two aged heroes died as they had hoped, within a short time of each other, and were buried as King Bele had bidden, the two princes being declared joint heirs to the throne by decree of the people; while Frithiof took possession of his heritage, Framnäs. His lands were on the coast, and extended for three miles in each direction. Forests of birch crowned the mountain tops, whose slopes were covered with golden barley and waving rye, growing to the height of a man. Lakes teeming with fish mirrored the wooded heights. Through the forests, threaded with rushing streams, roamed noble stags, proud and stately as kings. On the rich meadows herds of cattle with sleek glossy hides cropped the green sward; while here and there roved flocks of sheep, like fleecy cloudlets slowly drifting across the blue vault of heaven. Ranged in two rows, twelve pairs of fiery coursers pawed impatiently in their stalls; shod with shining steel were their hoofs, their manes knotted with red.
The great drinking-hall was so spacious that six hundred guests would scarcely fill it. Round the wall extended a table of polished oak, and on either side of the high-seat images of the gods were skilfully carved from elm wood, one representing the All-Father Odin, the other Frey, who rules over the rain and sunshine. Over the high-seat where Thorsten had sat for so many years a glossy black bearskin, with scarlet jaws and the claws tipped with silver, was thrown. Midway of the hall was the great hearth of smoothly polished stone, whence the dancing flames shot ceaselessly upward; and suspended around the walls, helm and shield and sword glittered in the reflection of the blaze. Rich indeed was the dwelling: abundance everywhere met the eye,—crowded presses, well-filled cellars and store-rooms; while many a jewel, spoil of many a conquest, lay hidden in close-locked chests.
But the three most precious possessions of the house were famed throughout the land. Of these the first was a sword, called Angurvadel, or Brother of Lightning. Forged by dwarfs in some far Eastern land, Frithiof’s ancestors had wrought with it many heroic deeds. The hilt was of hammered gold, and the blade was covered with strange runes, the meaning of which was unknown save to those who forged it in the distant Orient. When Frithiof drew it from the sheath, it flashed like the lightning or the streaming Northern Lights. Moreover, a magic power belonged to this wondrous heirloom: so long as peace ruled the land the runes on the blade gleamed dull and pale, but when war prevailed they burned red as the comb of a fighting cock.
Next to this sword in renown was an arm-ring of pure gold, the work of halting Vaunlund, the Vulcan of the North. Graved on it were the names of the holy gods and their castles, with the signs of the changing seasons, while crowning the circlet, as the sun crowns the heavens, was a splendid ruby. This ring had long been an heirloom of the house and had once been stolen by the robber Sote, who roved the seas pillaging and destroying. News came at last to Thorsten that Sote had caused himself to be buried with all his treasures in a walled-up mound on the shores of Britain; yet there his spirit found no rest, but haunted the place as a spectre. Forthwith Thorsten resolved to seek this ghostly visitant, and with Bele, who offered to accompany him, took ship and sailed away to the shore of Britain, where they soon found Sote’s place of burial. Like a sunken palace was the grave-mound, over which lay piled up vast heaps of earth and ruined stonework. Thorsten and Bele peered through a chink of the doorway into the vaulted depths. There stood the black viking ship, and high up on the mast squatted a grisly shape wrapped in a blue flaming mantle, its staring eyeballs rolling, while it vainly endeavored to scour the blood stains from a rusty sword. All about lay heaps of gold, and on the arm of the phantom gleamed Thorsten’s precious heirloom, the stolen arm-ring.