Fridthjofs Saga | Page 8

stranger, whichever way gazing,
Rested on cellar well filled, or on pantry or press overflowing. Jewels
the rarest, trophies of conquest, gleamed in profusion; Gold carved in
runes with great skill, and wonderful things wrought in silver. Chief in
this limitless treasure three things were most of all valued.
First of the three was a sword, which from sire and from grandsire
descended. Called Angervadil, or grief-wader, sometimes, too, brother
of lightning. Far, far away in the East it was forged--so at least says the
story-- Tempered in fire by the dwarfs. Bjorn Bluetooth the first one
who bore it.
Bjorn lost at once both the sword and his life in a bravely-fought battle,
Southward in Groning Sound, where he struggled with Vifil the
powerful. Vifil's possessions descended to Viking.
At Woolen-Acre,
Old and infirm, there lived a great king with a
beautiful daughter. See, from the depths of the forest there cometh a
giant misshapen, Higher in stature than man, a monster ferocious and
shaggy, Boldly demanding a hand-to-hand combat, or kingdom and
daughter.
No one, however, accepted the challenge, for none had a weapon Able
his hard skull to pierce, and therefore they called him the Iron-skull.

Viking, whose winters scarce fifteen had numbered, nobly advancing,
Entered the fray, secure in his strong arm and good Angervadil. Cleft at
one blow the hideous goblin, and rescued the maiden. Viking
bequeathed the good weapon to Thorstein, his son, and Thorstein, To
Odin ascended, bequeathed it to Fridthjof. Whenever he drew it, Light
filled the hall as when northern lights entered, or lightning flashed
through it.
Hammered of gold was the hilt, with strange letters 'twas
covered; Wonderful mysteries were they in Northland, but known to
the people Who dwell near the gates of the sun, where our fathers lived
ere they came hither.
Faint were the runes when the land was in quiet throughout all its
borders; But when the followers of Hild were summoned, then were
they burning Red as the comb of a cock when he fighteth. Lost was the
warrior Who met, on the field of encounter, the blade with its red letters
glowing. Highly renowned was that sword, and of swords was the chief
in the Northland.
Next highly prized was the ponderous arm-ring, widely notorious,
Forged by the Vulcan of northern tradition, the halting smith Volund;
Three marks it weighed, and gold was the metal of which it was
fashioned; Carved were the heavens with twelve towering castles,
where dwell the immortals,--
Emblem of changing months, called by
the poets the sun's glorious dwelling. First there was Frey's castle
Alfheim, that is the sun, which born newly, Starts once again to ascend
the steep pathway of Heaven at Yule-time. There too was Sokvabek;
seated within it were Odin and Saga Drinking together their wine from
a gold shell,--that shell is the Ocean, Colored with gold from the glow
of the morning. Saga is Spring-time, Writ on the green of the fresh
springing field, with flowers for letters. Balder, the kingly, is pictured
there, throned on the sun at midsummer, Which pours from the
firmament riches untold,-- personified goodness; For lights are the
good, radiant, resplendent, but the evil are darkness. Constantly rising
the sun groweth weary; the good also falter, Giddy with walking
precipitous heights; sighing they downward Sink to the land of the
shades,--down to Hel. That is of Balder The funeral pile. Glitner, the
castle of Peace, is there; seated Within it was Forse'te',* scales in hand,

meting out justice.
*For-se-te
Many more pictures with these there engraven, betoken the conflict
Waged against darkness, on earth and in heaven; bright were they
shining, Wrought by a master's hand on the broad arm-ring. Clustering
rubies Crown its high center, e'en as in summer the sun crowns the
heavens. Long was the circlet a family heir-loom. On the side of the
mother Traced they their pedigree back to old Volund, ancestor mighty.
Once, says tradition, the jewel was stolen by robber named Soti,
Roaming abroad through the seas. Long was it ere 'twas recovered.
Finally (so runs the story) 'twas said that the robber had buried Himself
with his ship, and. his treasure, deep on the far coast of Britain.
Pleasure or quiet he found not, a ghost was his irksome companion.
Hearing the rumor, Thorstein with Bele the dragon ship mounted,
Dashed through the foaming waves, straight to the place of the
sepulcher steering.
Wide as a temple's arch, or a king's gateway,
bedded in gravel, Covered with grassy turf, arched to the top, the tomb
rose forbidding. Light issued from it. Through a small crevice within
the closed portal, Peered the two champions. There the pitched viking
ship
Stood with its masts, its yards and its anchor. High in the stern
sheets Was seated a terrible figure, clad in