“Listen now, young Hammergray,
Strongly I entreat of thee,
If of Vidrik aught thou know,
Not to keep it hid from me.”
“Sick in bed if Vidrik lay,
Nor could sword nor buckler yield,
Many a Danish swain you’d find
Would await you in the field.”
Loudly answered then the King,
Through his veins rushed courage warm:
“I’ll to-morrow, if I live,
Meet ye in the battle’s storm.”
From beside the King’s right hand
Rose a kemp, a stalwart one:
“What care we for such like foes?
Vidrik’s but a blacksmith’s son.”
It was the young Hammergray,
At that word his wrath boiled o’er;
Straight he smote the kempion dead,
Dead he tumbled on the floor.
Said the Monarch with a cry,
While with rage his cheek grew white:
“Why hast thou my bravest kemp
Smit to death before my sight?”
Thereto answered Hammergray,
As the King he fiercely eyed:
“I could ne’er with patience hear
Verland’s valiant son decried.”
Straight away rushed Hammergray,
Soon he stood by Vidrik knight:
“Whet your spears, and sharp your swords,
For the King is bent on fight.”
All the mirky night they rode
O’er the dusky heathery down,
Still a light like that of day
From their polished weapons shone.
Over Birting’s moor they rode,
And through Birting’s swamp in haste;
Full seven hundred were the kemps,
All in hard cuirasses cas’d.