Loke, the idle one, angry and revengeful, as he always was, when happiness and rest and peace had driven out sorrow and care, paced angrily up and down the golden streets, his deep black frowns darkening even the clear, white light of heaven.
He came upon the beautiful sleeping wife of Thor.
“I hate my brother,” he hissed through his cruel teeth. “And how proud he is of this golden hair of Sif’s.”
The wicked light flashed from his deep black eyes. Softly, like a thief, he crept towards the sleeping Sif. He seized the golden hair in his hand. A cruel smile shone over his evil face. “Boast now of your beauty, O Sif,” he sneered. “Boast now of your Sif’s golden hair, O Thor,” he growled. And with one great sweep of his shining knife, he cut from the beautiful head the whole mass of gold.
It was late when Sif awoke. The leaves of Ygdrasil were moaning for the cruel deed. The Sun was sinking sorrowfully below the distant mountain peaks.
“O my gold! my gold!” sobbed Sif. “O who has stolen from me in my sleep my gold? O Thor, Thor! You were so proud of the gold. It was for you I prized it,—my beautiful, beautiful gold!”
At that second the voice of Thor was heard. His heavy call echoed across the skies and pealed from cloud to cloud. He was angry; for he had heard Sif’s bitter cry and felt some harm had come to her.
“It is Loke that has done this,” he thundered; and again his voice rolled from cloud to cloud. The very mountain peaks across the sea in the country of the Frost giants rocked and reeled. The waters foamed and tossed; the scorching lightnings flashed from his eyes; the whole sky was as one great sheet of fire.
The earth-children trembled as they had never trembled before. Even Loke, shivering with fear, cowered behind the golden pillars of the great arched gateway.
“Forgive me, forgive me!” wailed he, as Thor flashed his great white light upon him.