Meanwhile the King’s son sat on Frithiof’s gleaming shield, gazing about him proudly; but at length he began to weary of it, and with one bound sprang lightly to the ground. A shout went up from all the Ting:
“Ha, that was indeed a royal leap! Aye, shield-borne, thee we choose to be our King! And thou, O Frithiof, who shalt guard his crown and kingdom, take Ingeborg, our Queen, to be thy wife!”
At these words Frithiof’s brow darkened. “To choose a King are you come,” he answered; “my bride I woo of my own choice. In anger still doth Balder look upon me. ’Twas he that took my Ingeborg from me, and he alone can give her back to me.”
Chapter XXI
The Reconciliation
No peace was there yet in Frithiof’s heart. As fire had once consumed the temple, so within him still blazed the flames of his remorse that by his act had Balder’s earthly dwelling been destroyed. Betaking himself to his father’s grave-mound he sat all night alone upon the cairn, beseeching Balder to smile upon him once again. And lo! in the darkness a wondrous vision grew before his eyes. In Balder’s Grove he saw a gleaming temple slowly rise; but scarcely had he gazed upon it in amazement, when again ’twas swallowed in the gloom of night.
Roused by fresh hope of winning the offended god’s forgiveness, he hastily returned to Ring’s dominions and summoned architects to plan for the building of a new temple. Just as he had seen it in his vision should the home of Balder actually rise. So filled was he with this one thought that nothing else had power to move him, neither feast, nor chase, nor sounding minstrel lay.
At last the work was finished, and like the far-famed shrine of Upsal, the great temple stood a wonder to all eyes. A brazen portal richly carved led to the sanctuary; two rows of lofty columns supported the arching roof, like a great shield of gold. Facing the doorway stood the high altar, hewn from a single block of Northern marble and polished with rare skill; round about it were graven runes of solemn import. Above, in a spacious niche, was Balder’s august image, wrought all of purest silver. On a rocky hillside rose the building, its reflection mirrored in the sea below, while round about on three sides stretched a smiling valley, known as Balder’s Dale. Leafy groves adorned the flowery meadows. No sound but happy bird songs broke the silence; all nature breathed of peace.
With deep emotion Frithiof trod those holy precincts. Twelve rosy-cheeked maidens, priestesses of the temple, robed all in white, advanced to the high altar and chanted a holy song in praise of Balder. They sang how beloved was the gentle god by every creature; and when he fell by evil Loke’s malice, how heaven itself with earth and ocean wept. And as leaning on his sword the hero listened, the dark shadow, that so long had lain upon his spirit, lifted. Tender memories of his childhood woke within him, while calm and serene as the moon in the skies of Summer, Balder the Good looked down upon him and filled his soul with peace. Then with slow steps approached the high-priest of the temple, not young and fair like the god at whose shrine he worshipped, but tall and majestic, his noble features stamped with heavenly mildness and graced with flowing beard and locks of silver. With unwonted reverence Frithiof bent his haughty head before the seer, who thus began:
“Welcome, son Frithiof, to this holy temple. Long have I looked for thee to come, for force, though restless over land and sea it wanders, turns ever, wearied, home again at last. Oft did the mighty Thor wend thus to Jötunheim, the giants’ kingdom; yet despite his godlike belt and magic gauntlets, the giant King still sits upon his throne. Evil, itself a force, yields not to evil. Virtue without strength is but child’s play, the glancing sunbeam on the shield, a wavering shadow on the earth’s broad breast. Yet neither may strength without virtue long survive. It consumes itself, like rusting sword in some dark grave-mound—a debauch from which he who yieldeth to it wakens filled with shame.
“Behold the mighty earth! It is the body of Ymir, the world-giant from whom all strength proceeds—its rushing streams his blue veins; its iron and brass his sinews; yet all is barren, bare, and empty till heaven’s bright sun-rays stream upon it from afar. Then springs the grass; fair blossoms deck the verdant meadows, and fresh leaves, the trees; the swelling buds burst forth; all nature breathes new life from the abundant earth. Thus is it with man’s strength: it yields naught but blessing when transfigured by the heavenly rays of virtue.