Like chaff by a hurricane blown:
And it fell in the farthest southern-land,
So that all became his own.
Since then 'tis German right and grace
With the hammer the lands to merit;
We come of the Hammer-God's noble race,
And his world-wide realm will inherit!"
A burst of applause from his Gothic hearers rewarded the royal minstrel, who looked as if he could well realise the proud boast of the song.
Harald once more emptied his deep golden cup. Then he rose and said:
"Now, my little sister Haralda, and you, my sailor brothers, we must break up. We must be on board the Midgardschlange before the moon shines upon her deck. What says the Wikinga-Balk?--