“Truly,” the monarch cried,—“thou speakest well, and wisdom’s teachings bid us honor age. Come, sit at the board. But first, I pray thee, doff thy strange disguisement and show thyself in thy true form, for deception is ever wont to be the foe of gladness.”
At this the stranger let fall his hairy covering, and there, in place of an old man, appeared a youth of noble stature, his loft brow shaded with bright flowing locks. A blue mantle hung from his mighty shoulders, and his tunic was held in place by a wide silver belt, on which, with cunning skill, beasts of the forest were embossed. Heavy gold armlets encircled his arm; at his left side hung a sword that gleamed like lightning. Fair as Balder, like to the mighty Thor in strength of limb, he stood before the King and his astonished court. For a moment his keen glance wandered about the hall, then he seated himself calmly at the board. The blood rushed to the cheeks of the Queen till she glowed as crimson as the ice-fields lit by flaring Northern lights.
But now the trumpets sounded the signal for silence. It was the hour of the vow, and the crowned boar was borne into the hall on a silver charger and placed upon the board. Touching the head of the boar, Ring said:
“Hearken, ye warriors, to my vow! I swear to conquer Frithiof, howsoever stout a champion he be; so help me Odin, Thor, and Frey!”
The stranger rose with a frown and dashed his sword upon the board with such a clang that all the warriors sprang from their seats.
“Hear thou me likewise, good Sir King,” he cried: “That Frithiof whom thou namest is my friend and kinsman: and him I swear to guard with life and limb, so help me Norns and my good sword!”
The King smiled. “Thou speakest boldly,” he answered, “but words are free in Northland’s royal halls. Fill for him, Queen, yon horn with draught of welcome. I hope he’ll tarry with us as our guest till Spring returns.”
This horn was a precious heirloom of the house, broken from the forehead of the urus. Its feet were of silver wonderfully wrought, while the golden rings about it were carven with strange runes. With downcast eyes Ingeborg handed it to the guest, but she trembled so that the wine was spilled, and red drops gleamed on her white hand like evening’s purple blushes on a lily.
Unmoved, the hero took the mighty horn, lifted it to his lips and at one draught drained it to the honor of his host. Then at a sign from the King, the scald smote on his harpstrings and chanted many a heart-stirring song and legend. In lofty words he sang of love and friendship, of freedom and the country’s glory, of the high gods and Valhalla’s wonders, till fire shot forth from every eye, and involuntarily each warrior grasped the handle of his sword.
Deeply they drank throughout the night, and many a champion, like a tower of strength in battle, was vanquished by the sweetly foaming mead.