The Birchleg.
Not though you sat on the altar! [Cuts him down.] ’Tis a costly cloak you wear, methinks ’twill fit me well. [Is about to take the cloak, but utters a cry and casts away his sword.] My lord King! Not another stroke will I strike for you!
Dagfinn.
You say that in such an hour as this?
The Birchleg.
Not another stroke!
Dagfinn.
[Cuts him down.] Well, you may e’en let it alone.
The Birchleg.
[Pointing to the dead Vårbælg.] Methought I had done enough when I slew my own brother.