“Come, sing us a song, Krake,” cried Tyrker, giving the former a slap on the shoulder; “let us hear how the Danish kings were served by the Irish boys.”
“Not I,” said Krake, firmly. “I’ve told ye two stories already. It’s Hake’s turn now to give us a song, or what else he pleases.”
“But you’ll sing it after Hake has sung, won’t you, Krake?” pleaded several of the men.
“I’ll not say ‘No’ to that.”
Hake, who possessed a soft and deep bass voice of very fine quality, at once acceded to the request for a song. Crossing his arms on his chest, and looking, as if in meditation, towards the eastern horizon, he sang, to one of his national airs, “The Land across the Sea.”
The deep pathos of Hake’s voice, more than the words, melted these hardy Norsemen almost to tears, and for a few minutes effectually put to flight the spirit of fun that had prevailed.
“That’s your own composin’, I’ll be bound,” said Krake, “an’ sure it’s not bad. It’s Scotland you mean, no doubt, by the land across the sea. Ah! I’ve heard much of that land. The natives are very fond of it, they say. It must be a fine country. I’ve heard Irishmen, who have been there, say that if it wasn’t for Ireland they’d think it the finest country in the world.”
“No doubt,” answered Hake with a laugh, “and I dare say Swend, there, would think it the finest country in the world after Norway.”
“Ha! Gamle Norge,” (Old Norway) said Swend with enthusiasm, “there is no country like that under the sun.”
“Except Greenland,” said Olaf, stoutly.