[Seats himself.] Ere long there will be a dearth of what I most need, my lord.
King Skule.
What mean you?
Jatgeir.
Foes to King Skule, whose flight and fall I can sing.
Many of the Men.
[Amid laughter and applause.] Well said, Icelander!
Paul Flida.
[To Jatgeir.] The song was good; but ’tis known there goes a spice of lying to every skald-work, and yours was not without it.
Jatgeir.