“Strong are we indeed,” laughed Fenia sorrowfully, “strong to contend with the puny men—we whose pastime in Sweden was to tame the fiercest bears, so that they ate from our hands; we who fought with mighty warriors and came off conquerors; we who helped one prince and put down another. Well we fought, and many were the wounds we received from sharp spears and flashing swords. Frothi knows not our power or he would scarce have brought us to his palace to treat us thus. Here no one has compassion upon us. Cold are the skies above us, and the pitiless wind beats on our breasts. Cold is the ground on which we stand, and the keen frost bites our feet. Ah, there are none to pity us. No one cares for the slaves. We grind forever an enemy’s quern, and he gives us no rest. Grind, grind; I am weary of grinding; I must have rest.”
“Nay,” returned Menia, “talk not of rest until Frothi is content with what we bring him.”
Then Fenia started: “If he gives us no rest, let us take it ourselves. Why should we any longer grind good for him who only gives us evil? We can grind what we please. Let us revenge ourselves.”
Then Menia turned the handle quicker than ever, and in a wild voice she sang:
“I see a ship comes sailing
With warriors bold aboard,
There’s many a one that in Danish blood
Would be glad to dip his sword.
Say, shall we grind them hither?