Woe worth the day when I took her under my roof! Jökul’s words begin to come true.
Sigurd.
Jökul’s?
ÖRNULF.
Ay, her father’s. When I gave him his death-wound he fell back upon the sward, and fixed his eyes on me and sang:
Jökul’s kin for Jökul’s slayer
many a woe shall still be weaving;
Jökul’s hoard whoe’er shall harry
thence shall harvest little gladness.
When he had sung that, he was silent awhile, and laughed; and thereupon he died.