In vain the inhabitants of these regions sought to oppose the establishment of the heaven-conducted Scythians; in every battle they were defeated and driven with loss from their cities: the arrows of Frea carried destruction to the enemy—the mallet of Thor crushed thousands—and Odin, raging through their ranks, now as a warrior, now as a ferocious lion, spread devastation through their armies, and drove them from the field. The Scythians saw these wonders; and secretly acknowledged Valhalla’s lord beneath the form of Sigge. When the rage of battle was past, he lulled the wounded to repose, and arrested the parting spirits of the dying with the celestial strains of his harp; the wounds of his people were cured, and their strength restored by his celestial power, while, from the same cause, his enemies were bereft of courage and of vigour. Sweden and Norway yielded to the matchless warrior, and received with joy the unknown Sigge for their king, but the Danes refused to acknowledge the leader of armies; and Mimer, their prince, an enchanter, and the friend of Lok, opposed himself against the victorious prince of Scythia. Before the assembled Danes he contended with the stranger in eloquence and poetry, and in these his own people were compelled, by the severe laws of truth, to yield the palm to his rival. Mimer was wise, eloquent, and brave; the strains of his harp were only inferior to those of Sigge, and he felt deeply the injury which he had sustained by the decision against him. Determined to recover, with his sword, the glory he had lost, he called his armies together, and bade defiance to the Scythians: the opposing bands drew near; furious was the contest, for now, like a tiger sprung Mimer on his foes—now as a fiery serpent stung their hearts, or crushed them in his mighty folds. As terrible raged Odin in various forms, carrying dismay around him, and thinning the ranks of the valiant Danes. At length the monarchs met—in human form stood Mimer—in human form, prepared to oppose him, stood Valhalla’s mighty king: but momentary was the contest, the terrible blow of the Scythian brought the head of the Dane to his feet, as its faltering tongue pronounced the name of Odin. The foe fled to the camp, while the father of men again raised to life his beloved Scythians who had fallen in this, the greatest of his fields. At length, wishing to give peace to the weary land, he summoned the Danish chiefs to meet him in conference. Seated on a throne, he received the warriors: in one hand he held the sceptre of his power, the other rested on a golden dish, in which, now richly embalmed, and adorned with a crown of gold, lay the head of the wretched Mimer. The chiefs gazed in silence—a silence unbroken by human sounds, but disturbed by the voice of the dead, for the ghastly head opened its closed lips, fixed its eyes, and bade, in hollow but authoritative tones, its countrymen no longer oppose the will of the gods, but receive for their prince and lawgiver him who was master of the world! Again it sunk into silence, and the astonished Danes, obeying its dictates, fell at the feet of the conqueror of Mimer. And now, seated in peace on the thrones of the north, more brightly shone the unmatched virtues of Sigge. He taught his subjects husbandry—he taught them to plough the waters—he opened to them the riches of commerce—and he dug from the earth the treasures which ages had concealed in her bosom;—he punished vice with severity—he rewarded virtue with munificence—he taught them letters—instructed them in the mysteries of the Runic—and obliged them to cultivate the milder graces of music and verse;—he allured men to obey by the charms of his eloquence and the splendour of his glory; and he spoke to their reason by his divine Hovamaal, which he gave them as his best gift—his richest legacy. In this he bade them do no wrong to each other—to honour the eternal gods—and to render up life at the command of their country. When he beheld the good effect of his regulations, and saw his people firmly attached to his laws, he called around him his children, born of his mortal wives, of the daughters of Scythia, and, dividing his dominions among them, taught them to govern according to his ordinances and example. Satisfied with his work, he called Frea and Thor to his side, and, blessing once more his mortal children, ascended with them into the regions of light. Then loudly the Danes acknowledged Odin, and paid their homage to his glory; to his race they have ever been faithful, for they still fill the earthly thrones of their father, who, from his abode in Asgard, looks down upon his children, and crowns their lives with prosperity: and thus shall he do till the long night which is to witness the last battle of the gods—the last attack of Lok and his allies, and which for ages they have been preparing—against Odin and the happy spirits of Asgard. In the dreadful conflict, men and demons, oceans, earths, Niftheim, nay, even Asgard itself, shall be involved in one general wreck—one entire and undistinguished ruin; the infernal spirits shall fall in the convulsions—evil shall be no more—and from the ashes of the universe shall arise a brighter heaven—a gloomier hell, than those which have passed away. To the glorious seats of Gimle, the city of burnished gold—to its diamond-studded palaces and star-paved courts—shall the spirits of the just ascend, with Odin and his triumphant sons, to the enjoyment of one endless festival; while the cowards and wicked of the earth shall sink with their infernal allies—the revolted of heaven—into the caves of Nastronde, an abode more horrible than Niftheim—a den built up of the carcasses of snakes, and illuminated by devouring flames, where ever-enduring sorrow shall be the punishment of the lost, from which they shall have no power to escape, again to disturb the repose of the just.
Honour and praise to Frea—victory to Thor—glory to Odin, the greatest, and the best—hail to the master of gods and men!
Happily for his hearers, it was here, at length, that the merciless Brandomann terminated his long-winded history. Sleipner had for some time been his only auditor—Ildegarda had been nodding repeatedly—Heidruna fidgetily trotting backwards and forwards to the portal, watching the clouds—Serimnor had given two or three most portentous yawns—while the two ravens who did every thing in concert, had tucked their heads under their wings, and gone fairly to sleep:—but they all started up when the hum of his voice had ceased, and thanked the good Brandomann as sincerely as if they had been excessively delighted, for they were grateful that he had finished at last, and were besides too well bred not to be charmed with what had been done entirely for their amusement.
On the following day, during their usual rambles about the island, the princess looked so unusually depressed, and said so little in reply to the observations of her companion, that his attention, ever on the watch, was aroused by her sadness; tenderly he inquired the cause. “I will tell you,” replied Ildegarda: “when absent from you, and believing your life in danger, my only anxiety was to return; now, when that difficulty has passed away, I confess I am wretched respecting my father’s feelings and conduct, when he shall discover that I have quitted him for ever; neither is my own heart without a pang when I reflect that I shall see him no more. Oh that I knew what is to come!—that I could look into the future, and behold my destiny and his!” “I know not that it is in my power altogether to fulfil your wishes,” answered Brandomann; “but I can give you a glance into the future, so as to discover its general complexion, but not to enable you to read exactly the very page of destiny. That which I can, to gratify your curiosity, I will do,—I will arrest for a few minutes the flight of the triune deity Time, and, by her appearance, we shall be able to judge of what is to come.—Urda, Werandi, Skulda!” continued Brandomann, raising his powerful voice to its utmost pitch, “obey the command of the lord of the Maelstrom, the mighty delegate of Odin—pause in your flight for a moment, and stand visibly before him!” Scarcely was the peremptory order uttered, ere a light cloud was seen advancing towards them from the sea, and when it became stationary Ildegarda beheld a female form slowly and gracefully emerging from its centre; her features were indistinctly visible, and upon the floating misty robe that enveloped her figure, many changing objects were, some faintly, some powerfully, represented. “It is Urda the Past,” said Brandomann to Ildegarda; “the events written upon her breast and brow are partially concealed by her garment of oblivion and doubt; and when this is penetrated by mortal sight, they are still seen through the mists of passion and prejudice, by which she is ever surrounded: look now upon her breast and brow—what objects do they represent to you?” “I see a criminal,” said the princess, “about to suffer the sentence of justice—the executioner is preparing to strike.” “To my view the representation is different,” replied Brandomann; “I see a crowned king falling beneath the murderous swords of his rebellious subjects.” “I observe a dying parent,” continued Ildegarda, “who consigns his child to a noble warrior who weeps by his couch, but presses the babe to his heart.” “I also see the dying father,” said Brandomann, “but he resigns his infant to a demon in form, and worse than a demon in heart, for he instantly plunges a dagger in its throat: what else do you remark?” “Many other objects,” continued the princess, “but nothing clearly; the goddess herself is retiring slowly from my gaze, and to whom does she give place?” “To Werandi the Present,” answered Brandomann, “in her snow-white robe, with her unveiled face and open brow and eye—how clear she looks upon us!—and her garments will shew us our actions of this moment:—but she retires, and Skulda the Future supplies her place; clad in a robe of darkness, she exhibits nothing to our eyes, and the veil which covers her person conceals also her face from our observation: she shall withdraw it, and her smile or frown will shadow forth your destiny.” The goddess gently withdrew her veil, and the soft enchanting smile which she beamed upon the princess banished anxiety from her bosom, and graced the departure of the triune spirit with the sweet attribute of benevolence.
A few days after the prophetic smile of the deity of Time had given such hope to the heart of Ildegarda, they were, while wandering about the gardens of the palace, astonished by the roaring of thunders which announced a distant storm: they were surprised by the sudden change from daylight to darkness, and were puzzling each other respecting its cause, when the storm died rapidly away, the clouds fell down in a gentle shower, and the rainbow-bridge stood out in faint splendour from the heavens. “Look, dearest,” said Brandomann; “the spirit of the bow has lowered his beautiful bridge—some of the lesser warriors are ascending to Valhalla—I will address the guardian of it, and bid him render the road and its passengers visible to your sight.—All hail Heimdaller of the coloured crown!” continued Brandomann, “the friend of Odin speaks to thee; beautiful spirit of the rushing wings and eyes of tender glory, let us look upon thy face, and the road which leads to thy dwelling!” The silvery voice of the spirit answered him, giving an immediate assent to his desire, and in a moment the road and its travellers became visible to Ildegarda. Slowly, and with feeble steps, the wounded warriors dragged themselves on till they reached the summit of the bridge, when the gates of light flew open, and the spirit, in giving them his hand, bestowed upon them strength and beauty, and thus prepared them for the presence of Odin and the glories of the halls of Valhalla.
While Ildegarda with intense interest was watching the solemn procession of the dead, her eyes were suddenly dazzled by a brilliant light thrown upon the bridge, which now shone out in tenfold splendour, colouring the mountains of the island with tints of its beautiful hues. She looked up, and beheld the spirit of the bow descending, glorious in his youthful beauty; his diadem of many-coloured gems was on his lofty brow, and, in the ineffable loveliness of his sunny smile, there was a sweetness that made Ildegarda weep. “He goes to welcome one of the greatest of mortal heroes,” said Brandomann—“one of the favourites of Odin; his presence throws this glory round him, and at this moment the beings of earth, who gaze upon the bridge, behold its colours at the brightest: but see—at the foot of the arch there is one ascending to meet the spirit!—his wounds are terrible—his bosom is fearfully gored—and his steps are feeble and slow—but he has the brow and the port of a hero; as yet I know him not.” “But I do!” shrieked the hapless Ildegarda—“O Brandomann, I know him well!” The lord of the Maelstrom looked up again, and painfully recognised the shadow—it was indeed her father;—the pale inhabitant of another world, whom she saw ascending slowly to meet the welcome smile of the angel of light, was once the noble Haquin, the last friend of Harold and his sons. Brandomann gazed in grief and terror, and the sorrow he felt for the death of the warrior was scarcely mitigated by the change wrought in his wearied frame by the touch of the radiant Heimdaller. “Ildegarda!” he cried in a voice of tenderness and pity; “Ildegarda, think not that thou art alone in the world, or that all that loved thee have left it; look up, my dear one!—look on the happiness of thy noble father, and cease to regret his fate; what could thy love offer him in exchange for this?” Ildegarda mournfully assented as she saw his glory, and her grief became more resigned and gentle. She returned to the palace with Brandomann, who, far from attempting to console, wept with her the loss she had sustained. In the evening her friends did not as usual visit the island, but they explained the cause of their absence on the next. It was in honour of Haquin they had been detained at Valhalla, as Odin had commanded the feast earlier, in order to compliment this noble warrior,—“who now,” continued Sleipner, “sits highest in the hall, and nearest to Odin’s self.”
Time reconciled the princess to her father’s death, and to her hopeless imprisonment in Moskoe. The generous Brandomann, now that she had lost in the world all that was dear to her, and was most entirely in his power, never spoke to her of the love which it was but too plain he bore her. She saw and rewarded his virtue. “Brandomann!” she said to him one day as they wandered through the gardens of the desolate isle; “Brandomann, friend of my heart, in the world, where my father walks no longer, I have no interest, and can never wish to return; yet I feel that I could love and render some deserving being more happy than a lonely destiny could make him; thou alone art worthy of this heart, and of the duty which I will pay thee; I cannot love thee as I once loved Haldane—as I fear I should love him still—that feeling it is not in thy power to inspire; but I honour thy virtue, and am grateful for its exercise. Wilt thou accept this hand—this heart? If so, take me, Brandomann, for I am thine!”
She threw herself, as she spoke, into the arms which opened transportedly to receive her, and bowed her head upon his breast. She could not distinguish his reply, for a sudden peal of thunder rolled above their heads, and the earth was shaken to its foundation—a frightful darkness covered the island, and shrieks and howlings rung in their ears, mingled with shouts of triumph and the cheering blasts of the trumpet. Ildegarda clung closer to her lover for protection, when a gentle, well-known voice reassured her spirits and relieved her terrors. “Look on me, my beloved,” it said; “look on me, and receive the reward of thy virtue, and the approbation of Heaven on thy choice.” The princess raised her eyes to the face of her lover, and beheld—not Brandomann, but Haldane—the one, the only beloved, the first choice of her innocent heart; it was on his bosom she leaned—it was his arm that supported her slender form: she trembled with painful emotion. “But Brandomann?” she demanded—“Is at thy feet, my beloved,” replied the graceful warrior: “beneath that hideous form, Lok, in revenge for an ancient scorn, had condemned me to wear out my life, unless I could inspire a royal virgin with sufficient love to become my wife. Odin, in compassion to my sufferings, confined me to this island, and endowed me with sufficient power to fulfil the condition, and deceive and baffle the evil spirits themselves, by the means of their wretched agent, the detestable Frotho. Around thee stand the gallant chiefs and the Norwegian captives, who were sent against the monster of the Maelstrom, and who seemed to be destroyed by my vengeance; they are now my friends, and wait to conduct us to Denmark, where Haldane will lay his crown at thy feet.” The chiefs paid their homage to the princess, and immediately after, there arrived, to offer their sincere congratulations, her tender friends of many moons, the eight-legged, four-legged, and two-legged animals of Valhalla. Ildegarda, even on the bosom of Haldane, wept at the parting; for she knew she should behold them no more. They attended her to the shore, and beheld her embark in the gallant ship which Niord, at the command of Odin, had preserved for them in one of the ocean caves. Soon they were wafted to Denmark, and Haldane burst upon the usurper so suddenly, that he had no time even to arm his household guards for his defence. He was presiding at a festival when Haldane entered his presence; some of his nobles humbly acknowledged their prince, and the others, not caring to attack him, made the best of their way out of the palace, leaving the miserable Frotho in the power of his nephew, who, without giving him time to make his will, threw him headlong into the cistern of mead before which he was sitting.
Whether Haldane, in his natural shape, was as amiable and complaisant as he had been under his assumed one, is a question which the historian of his life cannot answer—nor whether Ildegarda, on her throne in Denmark, found as true friends and faithful servants as she had in the gulf of the Maelstrom: certain it is, she lived to a great age with her glorious husband, (who was the greatest prince of the race of Dan that ever swayed the sceptre of the north,) and that once or twice during their lives they had together visited the desolate isle; and the princess, to the great scandal of the ladies and gentlemen of the court, and surprise of her husband, wept bitterly on finding that the marble palace and its beautiful gardens had disappeared, the Moskoe isle had resumed its ancient appearance, and nothing remained to mark it out as the scene of such wonders as had passed in it. It has much the same character at this hour; and it would be very difficult to persuade its inhabitants, or the stranger who may visit its shores, that it once was a paradise only second to the bowers of Valasciolf’s own. You, gentle reader, know better; and, complimenting you on the patience by which you have acquired this knowledge, I bid you, for the present, farewell.