Notwithstanding all the provocations on both sides, the confederates were two or three whole years before they could “screw their courage to the sticking place,” that is, to the pitch necessary for the murder of king Harold. They had sent fifty inconsiderable nobles, whom they had found troublesome, to Asgard, without ceremony; but Harold was a king and a warrior, and required a good deal. “If we could but pour poison into his ear,” said Eric; “Or into his cup,” replied Frotho; “Or stab him in his sleep,” said Eric; “Or coax him out hunting with us,” replied the brother, “and give it to him quietly in the forest.” But none of these safe plans would answer;—so Frotho, accompanied by his sole and trusty counsellor, rode off for the forest, to find the cave where, tradition said, had resided, from the days of the “Avate” of Odin, his enemy Biorno, the descendant of Lok, grand nephew of Surter, and first cousin to the Wolf Fenris and Serpent Midgard. Frotho, however well disposed to beg the aid and advice of the sorcerer, by no means felt at ease when he considered the family to which he belonged: the wolf and the eternal earth-circling snake were known to bear no very great partiality to the race of Odin,—and Frotho, they knew, if they knew any thing, was a true son of their enemy. Still the Danish monarch trotted on with his squire till they reached the centre of the forest.
“After all, Eric,” said his majesty, as they trotted on cosily together; “after all”—but, as an historian, I must make one observation here: you are aware, dear reader, that the Scandinavians of the year 112, and some time after, did not use the same simple, plain, common-place sort of style which they have adopted to express their meaning now-a-days. If we may believe their own writers, they were always in alt, gave their commands in a kind of heroic prose, and carried on dialogues in a sort of rambling blank verse. It must therefore be obvious to you, dear reader, that I spare you their language, and only give you their sentiments, which, to the best of my humble ability I will translate for you into decent colloquial English, the better to carry your patience through the long-winded history which I am preparing as a trial for it. But to return to Frotho the fifth of Denmark. “After all, Eric,” said he, “I have perhaps no great reason to fear these ugly immortals: as I am going to consult their kinsman, and am withal very well disposed to put an end to the race of Odin, (that part of it at least most devoted to him,) I think they may be civil to me. My own son Sevald is the only member of the family I wish to preserve, and I may soon mould him to my own opinions. If the sorcerer will only dispose of Harold for me, or tell me how I may safely dispose of him, I shall not haggle on the terms of assistance; I will do any thing to serve him or his, which may not interfere with my own safety, or rob me of the diadem I am so anxious to wear alone.” Eric was about to reply to his magnanimous master, but paused, half afraid, as he discovered they were really in the sorcerer’s neighbourhood, for the yawning mouth of the cave was actually staring them in the face. Frotho, as became him, now took the lead, and marched dauntlessly forward, though not without a glance backward now and then to see if Eric was close behind him, and as any sound struck upon his ear that bore any resemblance to a hiss or a howl. At length, after many turnings and windings, he found himself in a cavern of large dimensions, broadly lighted by a huge iron lamp, suspended from the upper part of it. He turned round to make some remark to his patient tail-piece, but was petrified to observe that he had fallen to the earth stiff and insensible to every thing around him. The Danish monarch’s cheeks waxed pale, and his knees began to smite each other; nevertheless he grasped the hilt of his falchion, as a slight noise on the opposite side withdrew his attention from the insensible Eric Swen; there stood an old man of reverend aspect, mildly but steadily gazing upon the king: “Art thou he whom I have been so long taught to expect?” said the sorcerer; “art thou the king of the race of Odin, alone chosen by his invincible foe to render a service to the son of Lok, and deserve the everlasting gratitude of his children? If indeed thou art the appointed, I bid thee highest welcome, for the task decreed to thee hath been denied to the immortals, above whom the grateful Lok will raise thee.”
Frotho recovered his spirits at this address; half his business was already done, for his wishes were anticipated. He had been so little accustomed to receive compliments from his subjects, that his opinion of his own endowments had not been particularly high; but now he began to think he had mistaken himself, and was really a much greater man than he had suspected. He readily promised obedience to the sorcerer, upon certain terms, and assured him of his assistance when and wherever it might be demanded. The magician then proceeded to inform him that he was himself a descendant of Lok, and an ally of the spirits of fire, those daring beings who had for so many thousand years waged war with various success against Odin and his warriors, and which warfare would not cease till the end of the world; when, during a night which was to last a year, there would be a general battle, in which Earth, Niftheim, and Asgard, would go to wreck, and the conquering party be elevated to a newer and more beautiful heaven in Gimle,—while Nastrande, a still gloomier hell, would be made out of the fragments of the old one, for the accommodation of the party conquered. “Balder!” exclaimed Frotho, starting at this part of the story,—for he never liked to hear any thing of the old hell, which he thought quite bad enough without the spirits troubling themselves about the creation of another; “but I thought, sir sorcerer, that the wicked alone would be punished in Nastrande after the long night and battle of the gods; I thought”—“Exactly so, my son,” interrupted the sorcerer; “the wicked certainly; for the conquered will be the wicked—that is beyond dispute; but who will conquer is not so certain; perhaps Lok, perhaps Odin—each, as far as I see, have an equal chance; take part then with us, and share our danger and glories in the next world, and our certain assistance in this.” To this world, then, (as king Frotho had at present more business in it,) he limited his wishes, and gave Biorno his steady attention as he proceeded in his narrative, “Odin,” the magician continued to observe, “though utterly unable to chain entirely the powers of Lok, had just now decidedly the advantage; for he had a few hundred years before seized upon his eldest son, the unwary Surter, whom he had caught out of his own territories, and wedged him, in the shape of a raven, into an iron cage, there to remain till one of his own race, a kingly son of his blood, should release him:”—a condition from Odin probably implying an eternal punishment,—as that divinity, who does not appear to have been as omniscient as he ought, never imagined any member of his house would have been found silly enough to fulfil it. “Now then,” continued the magician, “I have consulted the eternal powers, and find that thou, Frotho of Denmark, art the king destined to this wondrous deed, and its following union with the immortals.” Frotho gave his assent to all and any thing proposed; and the sorcerer immediately began his operations; he raised his ebon wand above his head, with many magical flourishes—turned himself rapidly round—then more slowly, pausing at each of the cardinal points, and calling north, south, east, and west, upon the tremendous name of Lok. At that sound, so terrible even to the ears of spirits, the thunder began to rumble and the fires of Niftheim flash through the gloomy cavern; something like music was heard, and, though the concert was hardly better than those performed by king Frotho’s own band during his drinking orgies, yet as the voices (and they were many) solely employed their powers in singing his praises, and the approaching deliverance of the god by his means, his majesty was pleased to think nothing in heaven could be half so fine. Presently the earth shook, and the sides of the cavern rocked; Biorno pointed to the bottom of the cave,—and Frotho beheld it, after a few violent convulsions, suddenly open, and disclose to his view an enormous raven, in a gigantic iron cage. “Behold,” said the magician to him, “the prison of the immortal prince of fire!—in that shape he must remain a hundred thousand years, unless a kingly hand of the line of Odin shall restore him (by breaking the bars of his iron cage) to power and to liberty. Monarch of Denmark! go,—and success attend thee.” Frotho obeyed immediately; he made a desperate attack upon the iron cage, but failed in his intention of rending away its bars; he made many earnest efforts, but all in vain,—the bars remained unbroken. The Dane paused in vexation—he was frightened and mortified—and, by the howls and groans which resounded on all sides of the cavern, it was evident the anxious spirits of Niftheim sympathised in his distress: Biorno too, afflicted beyond measure at the ill success of the enterprise, threw himself upon the earth, tore off his magical cap, plucked up his hair by the roots, and howled as loudly as the noisiest of them. This dismal sight drove Frotho desperate; he collected all his energies for one mighty pull, rushed upon the cage, grappled with the bars, and, in an instant, threw them at the sorcerer’s feet, who sprung up like an elk to receive them. Frotho stood majestically silent, while an uproar, such as no human ear has ever heard since, began its diversions in the cavern; a thick black mist quickly filled its whole space, so that Frotho could but indistinctly distinguish the figures who made up the ball; millions of shadows were flitting about, and millions of voices were laughing, singing, shouting, groaning, and cursing. Midgard raised his glittering snaky head above the darkness and the shadows, and greeted the monarch with a cordial and complimentary hiss; wolf Fenris tried hard for a good-natured howl; and the grim Hela, their sister, the queen of death, tortured her ghastly face into a smile, as she capered nimbly backwards and forwards in the festival, animated by the thought of the many meals Frotho would furnish for her famished maw. But, at length, the immortals grew weary of their own noises—the infernal jollification came to an end—the mist cleared off—the fires went out—the uproar died away,—and Frotho’s courage returned to its half-bewildered master, who took heart once again to look about him. He was alone (to his great joy) with Biorno, except that, in place of the raven and his cage, there sat, reposing upon a light cloud, his beautiful brow diademed with his native element, the triumphant prince of fire, in all the pride of beauty and victory. “Frotho, son of Olave,” said the sweet voice of the spirit; “bravest among the brave, and wisest of the sons of Odin,—what is thy will with me? Tax my gratitude, preserver; ask, and obtain thy wishes.” Frotho waited for no further encouragement, but directly stated his wishes to reign alone in Denmark, and sweep off all the collaterals of his house, who were such bars to his glory. “Thy brother’s life I give thee,” said the spirit; “destroy him when thou wilt, but be cautious to keep it secret: his elder son shall in vain endeavour to oppose thee—I will baffle his claim, and proclaim thee sole monarch in Denmark; but touch not the life of Haldane; he has offended Lok, and the god demands the victim, whom he will receive from no mortal hand: for Harold the younger, do with him as thou wilt, but, if thou spare his life, he shall have no power to harm thee; go—reign—prosper;—nothing shall do thee wrong till thyself shall fulfil a decree which is gone forth respecting thee; thou shall prosper till thy hand shall unite thy own blood to that of thy deadliest foe: beware of this, and triumph.” “Prince of the powers of Niftheim,” said Frotho, “surely Harold, my brother, is my deadliest foe, and he has no daughter to whom I can give my son; but I will be mindful of thy words, and remember thy warning.” The spirit then desired him, should any event disturb his tranquillity, to come to the cavern and strike thrice upon the side where stood the iron cage: “Biorno shall meet thee,” continued he, “and yield thee, in my name, such help as thou mayest require;” then, slowly and silently encircling himself in the clouds which surrounded him, he gradually disappeared from the sight of Frotho, leaving the cavern illuminated only by the light of the iron lamp which hung from its centre. Biorno, too, had vanished, leaving him alone with Eric Swen, who, now easily awakened from his trance, prepared to follow his master home, who simply informed his confidant that he had consulted the magician, who had advised the murder of Harold, and promised him success in its performance. This was readily undertaken by the profligate Eric, who, watching, with a lynx-like assiduity, his opportunity, plunged his sword in the heart of the unhappy Harold with such right good will and judgment, that the prince died before he knew he was wounded: nor was Frotho behind his confederate in the good management of a difficult affair, and skill in getting out of a dilemma; and this was especially proved, when the body of Eric Swen, transfixed by a well-aimed javelin, was found stark and stiff by the side of king Harold, and Frotho ordered every body to believe that these enemies had fallen in single combat with each other.
There was one Dane in the court of king Frotho who took the liberty of believing contrarily to the royal orders; this was the brave Haquin, the brother-in-law of the two kings, and their favourite general and minister; he knew Frotho, and he suspected foul play. He secured the persons of his murdered master’s two sons, and, giving out that Haldane should challenge his father’s crown against Frotho, in an assembly of the states, retired from the court to his own towers, till the nobles should be pleased to appoint a day for hearing the claim of his ward. In the mean time, Haldane himself had not been idle; he employed a good number of his vacant hours in making tender love to his beautiful cousin, the young Ildegarda, and laying at her feet the crown which he was to have, and which Ildegarda accepted, as a thing of course; for she already considered herself the queen of Denmark. Haldane was tenderly beloved, and they each looked forward to the day on which he was to claim his father’s crown from the ambitious Frotho, as that which was to seal their love and their happiness.
That day at length arrived; the states, the nobles, the warriors, and a great part of the troops, were assembled in an open plain, where Frotho, on his throne, awaited the arrival of his kinsman. His majesty had arrayed himself with peculiar splendour for this solemn occasion; his long hair, now slightly tinged with grey, floated down his back, while all his face was clean shaven, except his upper lip, which exhibited a most magnanimous moustache; his breast, arms, and legs were painted in the brightest blue, and the most fashionable pattern in Denmark; a short petticoat of lynx skin, fastened round his waist by the paws of the animal, descended to his knees; and from his shoulders to his heels, secured round his neck by claws of gold, fell the robe of royal magnificence, the mantle made of the skins of many ermines; his feet were defended by shoes of the sable of the black fox; his neck was ornamented by a chain of gold, and the regal circle of the same precious metal shone through his locks around his temples; on his left arm was a target of leather, studded with brass nails of unusual brightness and immense value; in his right hand he held the sceptre; he sat upon a throne covered with the hides of wolves, and over his head floated, in proud sublimity, the standard of Denmark, the raven.
People may talk as long as they please about innate dignity and the majesty of mind, but the majesty of fine clothes has a much greater influence upon popular opinion,—else wherefore that elderly proverb which sayeth that “fine feathers make fine birds?” Every body knows that king Herod’s silver petticoat made the stupid mob of Judea mistake him for a god; and on this day, so important to Haldane, Frotho’s amazing magnificence made his people mistake him for a hero. So strong ran the tide of popular opinion, that when Haldane, simply habited, mounted on his snow-white steed, and only attended by Haquin and a few of his father’s friends, rode up the area, they scarcely deigned (though he was rich in all the pride of youth and graceful beauty) to consider him worth looking at; all eyes were turned to Frotho’s painted waistcoat and superb ermine cloak; and Haldane also beheld, with extreme disgust, that all his own friends, and the warriors favourable to his claims, who had fought by his side under his father’s banner, had been carefully excluded from the council, which he beheld supplied by the creatures of his uncle; he saw that his cause was lost before he could say a word: he was not daunted nevertheless; he demanded his right from Frotho, who, refusing to admit his claim, was challenged by the youth to decide the quarrel on the spot. “The states and the troops are present,” said the prince; “let them be witnesses of this combat, which thy ungenerous ambition must render mortal: if thou desirest a double crown, shew that thou knowest how to defend it; descend from thy throne, meet me fairly, and let Denmark be the reward of the conqueror.” Slowly, very slowly, king Frotho rose from his throne, for he saw that something was expected of him: although not precisely a coward, he had no mind to encounter his nephew, whose feats of arms he well knew: and earnestly and anxiously he put up a prayer to Surter to remember his promise, and baffle his kinsman in this trying emergency. Surter was not deaf; for scarcely had the monarch put forth one leg for the purpose of descending from his throne, ere a wonder attracted the attention of the whole assembly; the sound of rushing wings was heard from a distance, and slowly, sailing steadily through the clear air towards his point, appeared a gigantic raven: black as the shining locks of Odin was the magnificent and stately bird, who, tranquilly passing over the multitude, suspended himself in air over the head of Frotho, and, hovering steadily above him, clapped his enormous pinions in triumph. Haldane suspected a trick—Haquin was startled—but the multitude beheld a miracle, and the will of Odin clearly expressed by his own particular messenger: the bird hovered in the air a few moments, to witness the general acknowledgment of Frotho, then, amidst the deafening shouts of the people, ascended slowly upwards, cleaved through the clouds, and vanished.
Haldane stood apart, during the scene, in proud contempt of the ingratitude of his people; and the multitude were making too terrific an uproar to allow his few friends one word in his favour. Frotho, pleased by the timely aid of Surter, was grateful for the first time in his life; and, remembering the commands of the spirit, abstained from taking what he yet scarcely knew how to spare, the hated life of Haldane. Assuming an air of paternal interest and kindness, he bade the young prince retire from his presence and kingdom, without fear of molestation. “Son of my brother,” said he, “seek another kingdom for thy rule, this the gods have given to Frotho; retire peaceably, and take with thee what part of my treasure thou wilt.” “The crown, then,” boldly replied the prince; “for what is there, traitor! in thy power to bestow, that is not already mine by right? No! mean-souled coward! I scorn thy courtesy, and I defy thy anger.” But this gallant resistance availed nothing in a lost cause; his own party counselled him, for the present, to get out of the reach of Frotho’s javelin; and, too wise to disdain advice alike given by friends and enemies, he obeyed their wishes, and, after taking a tender leave of his betrothed Ildegarda, and promising to claim her as a king, withdrew to Sweden to solicit aid from its warlike monarch in defence of his title,—aid which he did not receive; for king Frotho soon after received notice that he had been murdered on that inhospitable coast soon after his landing, and, as it could never be ascertained by whom, Frotho silently congratulated himself upon the sure and ready vengeance of his ally and divinity, Surter. Haquin, alarmed by this circumstance, and more than ever suspecting the honesty of king Frotho, withdrew from court with the young Harold, now the sole surviving son of his murdered master, and, proclaiming him lawful king of Denmark, set up his standard in the heart of the country. Many powerful nobles, disgusted by the cruel brutality of his uncle, immediately joined him; and Frotho, frightened by danger into valour, and relying upon the promises of Surter, put himself at the head of his troops, and prepared for a civil war.
Many skirmishes took place between the hostile powers, though nothing very decisive occurred; but the troops of Frotho had generally the advantage, and always when the king commanded in person. Joy of this discovery nearly upset his majesty; he began to think himself a great general as well as a gallant warrior: he got exceedingly drunk with some of his old cronies who had made the discovery, and, during the deep sleep which followed this little extravagance, Haquin attacked his camp, beat his generals, carried off his son Sevald a prisoner, and nearly seized upon his sacred majesty himself, who knew nothing at all of the matter. Poor Sevald was marched off for the camp of the enemy, in a transport of sorrow and despair.
“Be not offended, prince,” said the good Haquin to him when he was brought before him in his tent,—“be not offended that the chance of war has placed thy person in my custody for a season; it is no dishonour to be the prisoner of Haquin. Our war is with thy father, not with thee; and should Harold succeed, even to the slaying of his uncle, he will never wrong thee, but yield thee thy just right, a second throne in Denmark: be not disturbed therefore at the slight accident of this war.” This was kindly meant, but it entirely failed in its purpose, and Sevald would have still continued to grieve if he had not discovered that fair princesses are better comforters than old soldiers. He learned that his lovely cousin Ildegarda was in the camp of her father, and he concluded that things were not quite so bad as they might have been. Sevald admired his fair kinswoman extremely, and, as Haldane’s death had set her free, he worked out the prettiest little romantic scheme possible for putting an end to the horrors of civil war and restoring peace to Denmark: he determined to entreat his father to give him Ildegarda for his bride, to adopt Harold as his partner, and thus to reconcile all parties to his ascendancy; but, unhappily for poor Sevald’s delightful scheme, all the persons concerned in it were, though for different reasons, materially against it. Ildegarda, true to the memory of Haldane, would listen to no second love,—Haquin, faithful to the cause he had adopted, would rather have consigned his daughter to the grave than to the arms of a son of Frotho,—and the Danish monarch would entirely have lost the little wit he possessed, at the bare possibility of such a destructive union as that of his own blood with that of his deadliest foe, for such now had the father of Ildegarda become to him. When he did hear it, he grew absolutely wild with terror and rage; he imprecated the most deadly curses upon his son, should he venture to espouse his cousin; and flew off like a madman to the cave of Biorno in the forest, to consult him in this most desperate emergency. He found the sorcerer at home, and willing to assist him, which he civilly did by the best advice in his power; he desired him to return to his camp and attack the troops of Haquin, promising to commit that leader, his daughter, and prince Sevald, safely into his custody; at the same time hinting that, as Surter had done as much for his friend as could decently be expected, he need not call upon him for further assistance, which, unless from his own imprudence, he would not need, and Lok had prohibited them from supplying. Frotho thanked him for past favours and present services, and, promising to demand nothing more for the future, they parted good friends, though not to meet again in this world at least, whatever might happen in the other. Frotho had no sooner reached his camp, than he hastened to profit by his friend’s advice, and instantly experienced its salutary effects; he defeated his antagonists in a pitched battle, recovered his son Sevald, and, to his infinite joy, possessed himself of the persons of Haquin and his daughter, though Harold escaped in the battle, and hid himself securely from the pursuit of his enemy. Had Frotho followed the suggestions of his own cruel heart, he would have decided Haquin’s destiny at once by taking off his head; but, fearful of his nobles, who held the chief in high esteem, and having likewise no hope of discovering Harold, except through his friend, he resolved to spare his existence, but to keep him in close imprisonment with his daughter, whose influence over Sevald he still dreaded, and whom, as the daughter of his sister, he dared not injure farther. The poor prince wept bitterly over his ruined hopes, and Frotho rejoiced at the delightful consummation of his: he enjoyed himself in his own way, killing and drinking by turns,—till, in a fit of madness and extravagance, he impiously declared that he had a Valhalla of his own, which he would not change for Odin’s, upon any terms that divinity could offer. Every thing was happiness in the palace, and Frotho was the most mischievous and merry of kings.