It stretches over half the sky, like a flaming sword.
Bård Bratte.
Holy King Olaf, what bodes such a sign of dread?
An Old Vårbælg.
Assuredly it bodes a great chief’s death.
Paul Flida.
Håkon’s death, my good Vårbælgs. He is lying out in the fiord with his fleet; we may look for him in the town to-night. This time, ’tis our turn to conquer!
Bård Bratte.
Trust not to that; there is little heart in the host now.
The Old Vårbælg.