“There is time enough yet,” said Styrbiorn.
“I had thought, to look on thee, that thy mind was set,” said Biorn.
Styrbiorn said, “For friends, that is one thing. But for a wife, I know not.”
“But thou lookest for a wife?” said Biorn. “And here to thy hand is a maid the fairest that may be, and like-minded with thee, and of as mighty kindred as thou couldest desire.”
Styrbiorn laughed. “May be I like not black women. Or may be I like not little women. And yet I like her. And yet, I will not.”
So now Biorn let that sleep, and left talking of these things.
Now was Yuletide come, and King Harald had a great bidding of his mighty men up and down the land to come and keep festival with him, and let sing mass in his kirk. And again he would have had Styrbiorn and his folk take christening, but none of them were minded thereto and the King could not get his way. At night was the King’s great Yule-drinking holden. There was much tale-telling there and man-matching.
The King asked Biorn to tell him somewhat about Iceland. Biorn told him.
“Is there no kings in that land?” asked King Harald.
“Not one,” said Biorn.
“Then who ruleth there?”
“The priests,” said Biorn.
“What, such as this one?” asked the King, pointing with his finger.
Biorn fell a-laughing. “Not so, Lord. Rather, such as I,” he said.
“Wast thou a priest then in Iceland, Biorn?” asked the King.
“Nay,” said Biorn.
“Why wast thou not a priest?” asked the King.
“ ’Tis not for every man,” answered he, “to hold that greatness. In my countryside, where I was born and waxed to manhood, was Snorri Thorgrimson priest in my time; and he had the priesthood from his father before him, Thorgrim the Priest of Frey, and it was in their kin and line since the time of Thorolf Most-beard that came first of them out to Iceland and took land at Thorsness.”
“Your priests are very like kings?” said King Harald.
“They have much the power of kings,” said Biorn, “save that no man need follow and obey them but of his own free choice. And they have not the name of a king nor the state of a king.”
“What wast thou in Iceland, Biorn,” asked the King, “since thou wast not a priest?”
“I was mine own man,” answered he.
“And what couldst thou do?” asked the King.
“I was a pretty man with mine hands,” said Biorn.
“Thou wast a pretty fighter?”
“Somewhat of that,” said he.
“I have heard tell,” said the King, “that there be good skalds in Iceland. What hast thou to say to that, Biorn?”
“There shall never be better skalds found than in Iceland,” answered Biorn, “though dale meet knoll.”
“Ha!” said the King, “I think thou must be a skald, Biorn. And that would please me more than aught else, if thou wouldst sing a stave or speak forth some ditty or song of thine.”
“I have made a drapa on you, King,” said Biorn, “of twenty stanzas long. If you will give me leave I will say it forth.”
“That pleaseth me well,” said the King.
So Biorn stood forth and spake his drapa that he had made in praise of Harald the King, and when it was done all thought Biorn was as good a skald as had been known in the Dane-realm these many years as far back as men might remember. And King Harald was pleased with Biorn’s song, and gave him a gold ring weighed twelve ounces.
The King asked Biorn if he knew more songs. Biorn answered and said he had store of songs of many kinds. The King bade him choose whichsoever of his songs he had liefest give them.
Styrbiorn said to Biorn apart, “This is somewhat unholy, this Yule-drinking, with neither blood-sacrifice nor praise of the Gods. Canst thou not speak somewhat in praise of the Gods, Biorn, so that they be not angry with us? and shame these Danes which regard ’em not?”
“I will do that willingly,” answered he. “And the willinger, because ’tis thou that askest it.”
So now stood forth Biorn a second time before Harald the King. Biorn was pleasant to look on, a big man and a strong, with fair and open countenance and crisp curling hair clipped short to the head and a short beard curly like sheep’s wool and growing tight and close. Thralls had piled fuel fresh on the fires, and the tongues of fire licked upward, and the reek hung about the black roof-beams and the lofty pillars of the hall; and the faces of men were red with ale and feasting and the fires’ heat and glare, and the bright light of the fires sparkled back from their eyes and from their rings and collars of gold and from the weapons that hung behind them down the long hall’s wainscotting of either hand. And this was the beginning of the lay that Biorn the Broadwickers’ Champion spake in King Harald’s hall: not his own, but the old holy Spae-Wife’s Lay which telleth of the beginning of all that is, foretelling also the end thereof, and the ways of the Gods with men. —
“Hearing I crave of all Holy Beings,
Of high and low, Heimdall’s children.
Wilt thou, Father of the Slain, that forth I tell thee
Outworn things, the oldest I mind me of old?
Of Giants I mind me, gender’d of yore,
Of them which in far days foster’d and fed me.
Nine worlds I mind me of: nine first Mothers:
And a mighty Judge under the mould below.
In the beginning, of yore, Nothing was:
Nor sand there was nor sea nor the surges cold:
Earth was not at all, neither upper Heaven:
Only a Gap was there Gaping: of grass not any.
Or ever the sons of Bor bare up the land,
They that did mighty Middle-earth fashion,
The Sun shone out of the south on
