Now it began to be late, and men fell to telling of stories, and later on to man-matching. But the King made them give over this, deeming it likely to turn out too little peaceable a game in such a company as was there, being not of one land nor of one allegiance but of two or three. And he bade instead a skald of his sing them somewhat, whether some lay or drapa. “And best of all, some old love-song, sith this is a betrothal feast tonight.” So the skald stood forth and in obedience to the King spake forth that song which men call the Hell-ride of Brynhild, in manner following—
The Ogress speaks.
“Hold! for thou gettest gangway never
Thorough this grit-built garth of mine.
Should better beseem thee to broider at home
Than to woo another’s wedded lord.
What cam’st thou to woo from Valland hither
O fickle head, unto house of mine?
Gold lady, thou hast, (and thou list to know),
Those milk-white hands of man’s blood washen.”Brynhild speaks.
“Braid not me therefor, O Bride of the Stone,
Though I of old did a-viking fare.
I shall be still the stronger called
Of us twain, whereso our tale men know.”The Ogress speaks.
“Thou, O Brynhild, Budli’s daughter,
For an omen of ill on earth wast born:
The children of Giuki a-gley thou smotest,
And their good house didst hurl in wreck.”Brynhild speaks.
“I shall tell thee a true tale,
O nothing knowing (if know thou wilt):
What guerdon I had of Giuki’s heirs—
To be reft of my truelove and troth-forlorn.
I was with Heimir in Hlymdale of old:
Seasons eight I sat there in joy.
Twelve winters had I (if wist thou wilt)
Ere oath I sware to any prince.
All they hight me in Hlymdale of old
Hild the Helm’d, whoso knew me.
Then let I, in the land of the Goths,
Helm-Gunnar the old to Hell go down:
To Aud’s young brother I brought the glory:
Over wroth waxed Odin with me for that.
He lock’d me with shields in Skatalund,
Red shields and white; rim touch’d rim:
Bade he then that man break my slumber,
Who in the wide world wist not of fear.
About my stately southern hall
High he let blaze the bane of woods:
Bade he then only over it ride
Him who should get me that gold that ’neath Fafnir lay.
Riding on Grani, the good gold-scatterer
Came to my fosterer’s famous steadings:
A viking better beyond all other
Deem’d they him in the host of the Danes.
Slept we and abode in one bed together,
As though he my brother born had been:
Not an hand of either drew nigh to other,
Eight nights long of our lying so.
Upbraided me Gudrun, Giuki’s daughter,
That I had slept in Sigurd’s arms;
Then wist I this clear which I would not wist:
That they had beguil’d me in bridegroom-getting.
World without end in woe and anguish
Must mankind and womankind quicken and live.
Now shall we twain never part,
Sigurd and I.—So sink thou: sink!”
Now all were silent listening while the skald spake that lay, for he spake it well and in a manner to touch men’s hearts. Styrbiorn sat still, harkening attentively; and while he harkened his gaze was bent on Sigrid the Queen, where she sat over against him at the King’s right hand. She sat there as heretofore looking down, so that her eyes were hid under their long lazy lashes. One arm of her rested on the table before her, toying with a fallen cup. Now Styrbiorn was held with the music of that song, and his thoughts within him were on the sadness of the song, so that, looking on the Queen, he saw not her, but in imagination that Queen of old time, Brynhild. So watching, he heard, as in a dream, the skald’s sounding voice:
“Thou, O Brynhild, Budli’s daughter,
For an omen of ill on earth wast born:
The children of Giuki a-gley thou smotest,
And their good house didst hurl in wreck.”
And as the song went on, Styrbiorn thought in himself: Brynhild? Why was she to blame for it? It was Odin set that fire about her, and that weird upon her. And that was Sigurd that rode through the fire. And yet, it was not to Sigurd that she was wed, but to Gunnar, son of King Giuki: and Sigurd wedded not her, that was his right love, but Gudrun instead, King Giuki’s daughter. And then Brynhild slew herself on Sigurd’s funeral pyre. It is a strange unlucky tale, and not easy for a man to tell the rights and wrongs of it. And now she is riding down the cold and stony way of Hell, and this Ogress would plague her now and hold her back from Sigurd.
In that study, and still looking with bodily eye on Queen Sigrid, he saw in her now in his mind’s eye Brynhild in her free and glorious time, “Hild the Helm’d,” the Valkyrie, Odin’s shield-may. Like as in a trance he watched and marked, with wondrous clearness yet with a mind removed and dispassionate, the proud-curved luxurious lips half-open; the white throat of her, strong and delicate; the bosom of her, pressed a little, as it rose, against the edge of her gown, then as it fell leaving a hollow that opened on sweet unseen depths of softness and beauty. His inward gaze moved downward, unhindered by the table that stood in the way of his bodily sight; downward to the jewelled girdle, the byrny’s skirt where it shaped its close-lying texture of shining interwoven rings of iron about the large rondure of her hips.
The skald spake the words:
“A viking better beyond all other
Deem’d they him in the host of the Danes.”
And Styrbiorn seemed in himself to be drowned yet deeper in the song, so that himself too was lost in it, and that which meant Sigurd meant him.
Then, at the words, “Upbraided me Gudrun, Giuki’s daughter,” he looked up: met, for the first time, Sigrid’s glance, and became on the instant like a man
