“Nay, son,” said Hilding sorrowfully, “abate thy wrath, nor seek to revenge thy wrongs upon the innocent. Rather accuse the Norns, whose doom on thee hath fallen. What Ingeborg doth suffer I alone can tell. Before all others her despair was dumb as is the turtle dove that mourns her mate. So doth the sea fowl, pierced by death’s arrow, sink beneath the waves, in those cool depths to pour away her life. ‘Atonement’—so she spake—‘hath been decreed by Balder for Frithiof’s violation of his holy place; nor may I, faint-hearted, seek to shun the sacrifice. To death he dooms me, not swift,—ah! that were easy,—but lingering—slow, to waste away with grief. To that decree I yield. Reveal to no one what I suffer. I desire pity from none. But be thou the bearer of my last farewell to Frithiof.’
“At last the wedding day was come (Oh, would that evil day had never dawned!); to Balder’s temple walked a train of white-robed maidens, led by a bard whose mournful chant moved every heart to woe. Amid them, on a coal-black steed rode Ingeborg, like that pale spirit which surmounts the thunder cloud. Before the doors of the temple I lifted my lily from her saddle and led her to the altar. With unfaltering tongue she spoke her vows; but unto Balder then she prayed in such heart-rending tones that every eye save hers was filled with tears. Then for the first time Helge marked the ring she wore. With a furious glance he tore it from her and placed thy gift upon the arm of Balder. But thereat I could no longer suppress my rage, and, snatching my sword from out its sheath, approached the King as he stood before the image of the god. Of as little worth was he to me at that moment as the lowest of his people, and verily a crime would have been committed in that sacred place had not a whisper reached my ears from Ingeborg.
“‘Nay, stay thy hand. Stain not thy spotless blade! My brother might indeed have spared me this; but much a heart can suffer ere it break, and the All-Father shall one day judge between us!’”
“Ay, Ingeborg,” cried Frithiof, “thou speakest truly—the All-Father will one day judge between us! But he also metes out justice here below by mortal hand, and ’tis in my heart that I am hither led to be the judge of one. Is not to-day the Midsummer feast of Balder, that Helge celebrates within his temple? Now, crowned priest, thou who hast sold thy sister, thou who hast robbed me of my bride, behold to-day thy judge!”
Chapter XIII
The Burning of the Temple
It was midnight. Low across the mountains burned the blood-red sun, which in far northern Scandinavia never sets on the longest day of the year. Neither day nor night was it—an awful twilight reigned. Within the temple Balder’s great feast was being celebrated. High in the air shot the flames from the sacred hearthstone, while pale, white-bearded priests raked the brands till showers of crackling sparks flew upward. Clad in his royal robes, Helge presided at the altar.
Suddenly the clash of arms sounded without, and a voice was heard: “Björn, hold fast the door! Let none escape! If any strive by force to pass thee, cleave his skull!” Helge grew deadly pale; he knew that voice too well. Then in strode Frithiof and addressed him:
“Here is the tribute thou didst order me to bring thee from Augantyr. Take it! And now, for life or death we’ll strive before this altar. One of us twain must burn on Balder’s pyre. Shieldless we’ll fight and thou, as befits a King, shalt have first stroke. But beware, I say, for I strike second. Nay—gaze not fearfully about, nor seek escape, King Fox! Caught in thy hole art thou at last. Remember Framnäs that thou didst lay waste, and think of Ingeborg’s cheeks, blanched by thee!”
Beside himself with fury, Frithiof tore the heavy purse of gold from his belt and hurled it at the head of the King, who straightway sank swooning on the altar steps, blood gushing from his mouth and nose.
“What! canst thou not bear the weight of thine own gold?” shouted Frithiof. “Shame! shame! thou coward King! Truly my sword is far too noble for thee, nor shall it taste of blood so base as thine. Silence, ye pale priests of moonlight, nor dare to lift your sacrificial knives! Back, back, I say, for thirsty grows my blade!”