Whilst this proceeding was confined to himself, it acted with electrical effect upon these wild men. Slowly at first, then with accelerated pace, they were worked up into a strange frenzy; first giving utterance to low passionate interjections, then, as the infection became more feverish, they seemed completely carried away,—shouting, starting to their feet, and brandishing their swords, as though in deadly combat. Ere long every man, Sigurd included, was in a state of overwhelming excitement, capering round the Skaldstong, holding aloft their weapons in the air, and making the cave ring again with their shouts and shrieking.
The following is a sample of the rude and uncouth song which Olaf chaunted:—
"Odin, the Norse god,
Skaldstong we rear;
Curse us the foe near,
Cold-ribbed[8] and foul.
Nithing[9] is the Saxon,
Marrowless his bones;
Jötun,[10] we call thee,
Loose us the watch-dogs.
Snarls the fierce wolf,
Creeping light[11] bearing;
Gyg, woman of Jötnar,
Haste on before;
Gird on the Hel-shoes,[12]
Freeze up the blood.
Terror-full and shaking,
The sallowy kite hovers;
The wolf digs his fangs,
Drinks up the blood.
Skuld[13] has gotten him
Vedrfölnir's[14] prey;
Told o'er the corpses
Fattened with gore.
Water sprinkled heroes,
Nornir hath life fated;
Valkyrias hath guarded,
Shout for the prey."
Gibberish it seems to modern ears; but upon these rude men,—with grossly over-grown superstitions, and dwarfish reasoning faculties,—this song, jerked out in frenzied exclamations and fanatical intensity, the effect was electrical and intensely contagious.
Whilst the excitement was at its height, above the din the priest's voice was heard as he shouted,—
"Skalds, hoi! I scent the battle; I smell the blood of the Normans. "Gyg,[15]" the woman of Jötun race, has gone before ye, to confound the foe. Scalds, hoi! Arise! scatter your enemies!"
As he said this he handed to every man a small piece of wood, with runes carved upon it, and each one hid it under his garment. It was a sure protection against wounds and death. Then, catching up an image of Thor and carrying it before him, he cried,—
"Follow me."
So saying, he led the way, followed by Sigurd and the rest in a state of intense excitement. Together they scrambled out on the limestone hills above them. It was quite dark, saving as the boisterous wind sent the broken and ominous-looking clouds scurrying before it, across the face of the heavens, and permitting the stars to look down to earth. The elements seemed, indeed, to have caught the fierce infection, for the wind howled and whistled against the huge boulders, and the bare limestone precipices on the hillside; and it soughed and roared through the woods below, rocking and tossing the tree-tops until they seemed possessed by the furies. The fierce band of men responded in savage glee to this tempest of the elements; every man amongst them believing that this fierce raging of nature was the work of the supernatural agencies invoked, and already hastening to help them in this work of revenge. The old priest's vigour and animation was marvellous: he seemed to have shaken off the infirmities of age; the wild fanatic spirit within achieving a complete triumph over the weak and shattered body. He led the band at a brisk pace, chanting as he went the same weird song. Ere long, the downward trend which they had followed led them within sight of the Norman camp fires, at the sight of which they could not resist the impulse to shout and savagely brandish their swords. But the state of the elements was such that scarcely any liberties of that sort would betray them.
The Normans were encamped in an open glade, with the wood all around them and within twenty yards of their camp fires. Previous bitter experience, however, had taught them extreme caution. Two or three sentinels paced to and fro, and several fierce dogs lay curled up in the glow of the fire. Besides this, every sleeper, as he lay wrapped in the arms of peaceful sleep, grasped the hilt of his sword.