“Not a bit, were it mirk,” said Dyrë.
Full soon, they tell, it did befal
That in the merry Yule-tide,
When cups went round, and beards wagg’d all,
And the ale was briskly plied:
All in a trice the mirth grew still:
Hark! what a sound came from the hill,
As a hundred steers lowed near ye.
“Well, now its right mirk,” quoth Dyrë.
Then straightway he hied to Totak-vand,