Led by the royal pair, the gay train wends its way into the forest, and soon the sport begins. Loud bay the hounds; up mount the hawks into the clear sky; horns sound; the frightened game seeks lair and covert; and the eager huntsmen scatter in pursuit.
King Ring has fallen behind; old and feeble, he can no longer follow the lengthening chase, while beside him silent and thoughtful, rides his guest. At last they reached a rocky glen shut in by thick-clustering trees and thickets, and here the King dismounted from his courser, saying:
“Full weary am I, stranger; here will I rest me in this pleasant spot.”
“Nay, sleep not on the cold hard ground,” replied the other; “I had better lead thee back to thy own halls.”
“Sweet slumber comes when least expected; ’tis the way of the gods,” said Ring. “Surely thou dost not grudge thy host an hour of rest!”
Without further words, the stranger spread his cloak upon the ground and seated himself on a fallen tree-trunk, while Ring, stretching himself out upon the mantle, laid his head against the other’s knees. His eyes closed and soon he slept, sweetly as an infant cradled in its mother’s arms. As the stranger gazed gloomily down on the face of the King, he heard a rustling in the branches above him to the left, and lifting his eyes he saw a coal-black bird, which began to sing:
Haste thee, Frithiof, slay the dotard, with one sword-stroke grant him rest!
Take the Queen; she’s thine; her sacred kiss of plighted troth she gave.
Here no human eye can see thee—silent is the deep, dark grave!
Scarce had the sound ceased when from a bough on the right, a snow-white bird began: