Hallgerd, my harp that had but one long string,
But one low song, but one brief wingy flight,
Is voiceless, for my bowstring is cut off.
Sever two locks of hair for my sake now,
Spoil those bright coils of power, give me your hair,
And with my mother twist those locks together
Into a bowstring for me. Fierce small head,
Thy stinging tresses shall scourge men forth by me.
Hallgerd.
Does ought lie on it?
Gunnar. Nought but my life lies on it;
For they will never dare to close on me
If I can keep my bow bended and singing.
Hallgerd, tossing back her hair.
Then now I call to your mind that bygone blow
You gave my face; and never a whit do I care
If you hold out a long time or a short.
Gunnar.
Every man who has trod a war-ship's deck,
And borne a weapon of pride, has a proud heart
And asks not twice for any little thing.
Hallgerd, I'll ask no more from you, no more.
Rannveig, tearing off her wimple.
She will not mar her honour of widowhood.
O, widows' manes are priceless.... Off, mean wimple—
I am a finished widow, why do you hide me?
Son, son who knew my bosom before hers,
Look down and curse for an unreverend thing
An old bald woman who is no use at last.
These bleachy threads, these tufts of death's first combing,
And loosening heart-strings twisted up together
Would not make half a bowstring. Son, forgive me....
Gunnar.
A grasping woman's gold upon her head
Is made for hoarding, like all other gold:
A spendthrift woman's gold upon her head
Is made for spending on herself. Let be—
She goes her heart's way, and I go to earth.
Aunund's head rises above the wall near Gunnar.
What, are you there?
Aunund. Yes, Gunnar, we are here.
Gunnar, thrusting with the bill.
Then bide you there.
Aunund's head sinks: Thorgeir's rises in the same place.
How many heads have you?
Thorgeir.
But half as many as the feet we grow on.
Gunnar.
And I've not yet used up (thrusting again) all my hands.
As he thrusts another man rises a little farther back, and leaps past him into the loft. Others follow, and Gunnar is soon surrounded by many armed men, so that only the rising and falling of his bill is seen.
The threshing-floor is full.... Up, up, brain-biter!
We work too late to-night—up, open the husks.
O, smite and pulse
On their anvil heads:
The smithy is full,
There are shoes to be made
For the hoofs of the steeds
Of the Valkyr girls....
First Man.
Hack through the shaft....
Second Man.
Receive the blade
In the breast of a shield,
And wrench it round....
Gunnar.
For the hoofs of the steeds
Of the Valkyr girls
Who race up the night
To be first at our feast,
First in the play
With immortal spears
In deadly holes....
Third Man.
Try at his back....
Many Voices, shouting in confusion.
Have him down.... Heels on the bill.... Ahui, ahui....
The bill does not rise.