The day came—
And Uffon’s fiery chariot bore him forth
Unto the battle field—
Less bright—less beautiful
Is Balder when, from Lidscialf’s diamond steps,
He rises to illuminate the worlds
Which wheel caressingly around him—and
Gallantly rode the Saxon.
But the king—
The blind—the father—where is he? He sits
On yonder rock, high o’er the foaming sea,
There to await the battle.
Should he fall—
His own—his only one—
Ocean will catch his form,
And hide his griefs for ever.
IX.
It was a deadly fight
Between the Saxon and the Dane;
And once
There was a scream, as if the inspired boy
Was lost, for he had sunk upon his knee—
But he beheld his father’s sightless eye
Upturned in agony—
And he arose—and then
Another sound was heard—a mighty shout—
The scorner of the blind was slain!
X.
The son—he flew,
A bounding reindeer to his father’s arms—
He paused—
They were upraised,
In attitude of thankfulness
His lips
Were pale, and still, and smiling—
But—his heart
Had broke in that fierce struggle—
He was gone—
Heimdaller’s wings were shadowing him, as o’er
The wonderous bridge he trod;
Valkyries bore
His spirit to the foot of Odin’s throne,
To tell of Uffon’s glory.
XI.
Nameless one!
This justice was thy deed—
We worship thee,
Although we love thee not!
“No, truly,” said Serimnor, on the conclusion of the legend; “that would be quite impossible either for heaven or earth; but glory to the good Uffon—few warriors in Valhalla are more esteemed than he. The skull of the impious Saxon is now his drinking cup; and his father, restored to sight, beholds the pledge of victory with undying felicity: and, in the combats and martial sports of the morning, the battle between his noble son and the Saxon is daily renewed, to gladden him with the sound of conquest and triumph over his shadowy foe.” “Look, Serimnor,” said the horse of Odin, interrupting him impatiently, as a bright flash of lightning darted into the hall and played against his head for a moment; “Look, we are again outstaying our time—the son of Rinda is shooting his brilliant arrows, and one has already touched you: let us obey the summons, and not provoke him to make his fatal shafts unerring.” “Away, then!” cried Heidruna. The ravens flapped their wings—Brandomann rose—and the hall was cleared in a moment.
Ildegarda had hitherto been happy in the reports of the magic mirror, and satisfied with its assurances of her father’s safety. On the first of the tenth month of her residence on the island, she again withdrew the curtain,—but a different spectacle awaited her; Haquin was lying wounded upon his couch, pale and insensible, while his attendants were anxiously endeavouring to stanch the blood which flowed from his injured side. The princess became wild with apprehension; instantly she sought her faithful Brandomann, to pour into his bosom the grief which distracted hers. He listened with tender sympathy. “There has been a battle between your father and Frotho, no doubt,” he replied; “but though I am not informed of all the particulars, I know that Haquin will not die of this wound: take comfort from this assurance, for when did I ever deceive you?” But Ildegarda refused all consolation, and persisted in thinking and making herself the most miserable of all human beings. Her father was ill—wounded—in need of her assistance—and she herself uncertain of his fate for a whole month at least. Her anxiety hourly increased, and her grief, too powerful to be concealed from Brandomann, affected him no less painfully than herself. It was in vain he exerted his talents to divert her anguish; she was grateful for his kindness, but did not shed one tear the less: his conversation had lost its charms, his tales and songs their interest. Brandomann discovered this, and, after a terrible struggle, his generous nature overmastered every selfish and interested feeling. “I cannot,” said he at length to the weeping princess; “I cannot bear to witness your sorrow, and know that I am the cause. For your sake I will again disobey the command of Odin, which had decreed your captivity to be perpetual; you shall go to your father: promise me that you will return hither, and you shall be swiftly conveyed to his tent—and remain with him seven days; at the close of that period you must return, or my life will pay the forfeit of my fault, and be demanded to appease the anger of Odin. Go, then, beloved princess,—but sometimes think of Brandomann, and what he will suffer for your sake.” The princess could scarcely believe what she heard: in a rapture of joy she accepted the offer, and was most fervent in her promises to return at the expiration of seven days. Brandomann sighed heavily, but made no reply to her frequent protestations of their soon meeting again. “You shall be with your father to-morrow morning,” said he: “merely take this ring—put it upon your finger when you go to rest to-night, and do the same thing when you wish to return to me; but do not wear it at any other time.” The princess joyfully accepted the gift—took an affectionate leave of her admired monster—and retired to rest full of hope and expectation—expectations which were fully realised on her awaking in the morning; for she found her couch in her father’s tent, and he himself gazing upon her with tender anxiety and wonder.
The joy of Haquin, at again folding his beloved child to his bosom, was considerably damped by the narrative of her adventures, and the promise which she had given to Brandomann to return. As he did not deem it possible that she intended to keep her word, he was not a little astonished at her declaration, when she assured him she could remain with him only during the seven days. He argued strongly against her intention; and she at present, unwilling to distress him, ceased to oppose his opinions, and occupied herself entirely with the care of his health, knowing that it would always be in her power to return whenever she felt the inclination. Her tender attention was fully appreciated by Haquin, but she herself was far from being at ease in the midst of a tumultuous camp, where her wishes were not anticipated with the swift and delighted obedience of her island attendants: she had no change of dress either: a circumstance peculiarly vexatious, as she was daily surrounded by admiring warriors, who constantly paid homage to her charms,—and among whom prince Harold was not the least fervent in his expressions of devotion to her beauty. Awakening one morning after many regrets upon this subject to herself overnight, she was surprised to see the chest which ornamented her chamber at Moskoe, and which contained her superb wardrobe, standing by the side of her couch: she opened it hastily: “Kind, generous Brandomann, always alike solicitous for my happiness and pleasure,” she exclaimed; “how much do I not owe thee!” She immediately decorated her lovely person and returned to her father, who, cheered by her presence and renovated by her care, was quickly recovering from the effects of his wound: he now informed her that Haldane was universally said to have been murdered by his uncle; and that, in consequence of their disgust at this act of cruelty, many noble Danes had resorted to the standard of Harold, whom they unanimously called to the throne, though they held not the gentle boy in the same estimation as his more valiant brother. To this he added, that as the young king had declared a passion for Ildegarda, he had determined to unite them despite of the wrath of Frotho, and thus repay her long captivity by placing her upon a throne. His daughter had many objections to this arrangement, but her father’s heart appeared to joy so deeply in its contemplation that Ildegarda had not the courage to undeceive him: the tenderness of Haquin, the novelty of again seeing human faces, and the pleasure of listening to the gallant praises of the noble Danes, at length rendered Ildegarda forgetful of her promise, and not only seven days, but twice that number slipped away, ere she called to mind the probable anxiety of Brandomann. She now determined to repair her fault and hasten back to the island, but when, upon retiring to rest, she sought her ring to place it upon her finger, the talisman was nowhere to be found. In great distress she hastened to her father, expecting him perhaps to sympathise in her misfortune, but, unlike the gentle monster of the Maelstrom, he laughed at her anxiety, and congratulated her upon her loss; he bade her be under no apprehension respecting her ring, since it was safe in his possession—he had stolen it on being informed of its virtue, in order to secure her company,—“which,” he continued, “it appears, without this precaution I should have lost.” He observed that he could not permit such a preposterous union between beauty and a beast, who, instead of being a descendant of Odin, was doubtless a member of the infernal royal family of Lok, and consequently some diabolical sorcerer, who had thus bought her, body and soul, of Frotho: he would give her, he remarked, a husband better suited to her rank and beauty, and commanded her to prepare to espouse the royal cousin Harold, within at least ten days. Ildegarda was much startled by this conversation; and she who in the desolate island had mourned over the idea of perpetual captivity, now wept with more bitterness her recovered liberty, and the prospect of never more returning to her prison; she thought of the tender obedience of Brandomann to her lightest wish, and his generous self-denial upon all occasions respecting her. She lamented the kind-hearted Serimnor, the chivalrous horse, the affectionate goat, and even the ravens and reindeer received the tribute of her tears; but the idea of the probable suffering of Brandomann for his devotion to her, and disobedience in her favour, filled her heart with the most poignant regret; she hated Harold, and she esteemed her Maelstrom friend, and not a day passed without the severest search for the ring that was to convey her back to his territories. At length Rinda, in pity, heard her prayers. In her father’s bosom, during his sleep, she found her glittering ring, which she hastily secured as her dearest treasure, and instantly retired to rest; and when morning again looked upon her, it was in her chamber of the desolate isle.