The youth stepped toward Wulfhere and reached out his hand for the instrument. Still silent, the bard drew his seax and cut the strings with one blow.
“What!” cried the chief in fury. “What doest thou?”
“No harp of mine shall sing in praise of Guthrum,” responded Wulfhere sternly.
“But thy tongue shall,” declared the other. “Sing, scald, else it shall be torn from the roof of thy mouth, and never shalt thou lift thy voice in praise of any other.”
“Rather than it should sing in praise of the Northmen I would tear it out myself,” declared the bard with energy.
“Bold art thou,” cried the leader, “or it may be that thou believest that we will be niggardly with our gifts. See! Hath the Saxon done so well?”
He tore from his arms some massive gold bracelets which were held in great esteem by the Danes, and cast them at the ministrel’s feet. The gleeman thrust them aside contemptuously with his foot.
“I scorn both your gifts and your threats,” he cried. “But listen! Ye shall hear a song.”
Believing that he was really intimidated despite his words, the Danes stayed their hands and composed themselves to listen, well knowing that there was time enough to avenge the insult to their gifts. Then Wulfhere drew Egwina back from them a little and began:
“What shall the minstrel sing by the fireside?
What hero shall he laud to the young?
When the nights have grown cold and chill whistles the wind in the tree tops,
Close gather they to the fireside.
Then call they for the harper.
He sings, and he sings of the Northman.
Great was the feast of the raven
When Guthrum swept over the land.
Wild shrieked the kite and the eagle;
And hoarse croaked the toad that was horned
Up rose the Dragon of Wessex!
Up then rose the Deliverer!
Up rose Alfred the wise one!
Maker of ships and of laws!
Guthrum and Danes floe before him!
Guthrum the old and the aged!
Guthrum in fear of the great one!”