Ingebjörg
There once lived a king and queen who ought to have been as happy as the day is long, for they had a fine kingdom, a beautiful palace, plenty of horses and carriages; their treasure-room was filled with gold, silver, and precious stones, and no matter how much they took out of it, it always remained full.
Their people were quiet and industrious, and they had no cares or troubles; yet, notwithstanding all this, they grew daily more sad and sorrowful, for they had no children to inherit all the riches they owned.
One day the queen went out into the palace garden. It was a fine bright winter’s morning. The snow lay hard and firm on the ground, and each tree and bush sparkled and glistened in the sunshine, just as if the jewels in the king’s treasury had been scattered over them.
The queen, feeling tired, sat down on a stone bench beneath a huge oak tree, when suddenly a large white bird flew down from the tree. It brushed past so close to the queen’s face, that the wing-feathers scratched her cheek, and a few drops of bright crimson blood fell on the snowy ground.
“Oh,” cried the queen, “would that I might have a daughter who would be as beautiful as those crimson drops on the white glistening ground!”
“You shall have your wish,” sang the bird, as it flew away, its white wings shining in the sun like silver.
The queen had hardly recovered from her surprise than she heard a noise behind her, and, turning round, she beheld the old man Surtur, who lived in a little hut near the palace, and who was well known and dreaded as a wicked magician.