Halfred had now certainly emptied many horns; but as yet he had vowed no vow. Silent and grave he sat in the seat of the honour, as befitted the host; exhorted the tardy drinkers--there were not however many of them--by sending the cup bearer to them, with the drinking horn; and smiled quietly, when many a one vowed vows which he would never fulfil.
Then arose from his seat Vandrad the Skald, from Tiunderland, and stood upon the second step of the dais, and spoke. Halfred had vanquished him five times, and yet the Skald was a faithful loving friend to him--
"Vows have here been now vowed by many Guests of small worth. But Halfred, the Lord of the mead hall, Still holds his thoughts hidden. I laud him, most lofty, No vows hath he need of, His name may content him. Yet I miss in the mead hall One thing to the mighty, To the man is awanting A maiden to wife. What rapture if only, From the high seat of honour, The horn to us, downward, The dazzling white hand Of the nobly born Princess, Harthild, should hold."
All the guests kept silence when Vandrad had spoken. Halfred looked proudly down upon him, and very gently, he told me later, he felt the veins in his temples swell, as, smiling, he asked the Skald--but it was the smile of a king, not a child's smile--
"And what then of Harthild, Her beauty and fame, Canst thou here sound the praise, In Halfred's mead hall?"
"For all that thou knowest, Thou far roaming Viking, Hast thou never heard Harthild's Descent and renown Proclaimed on the harp? From Upsala's ancient Deep rooted stem The maiden is sprung. Hartstein the Haggard, Men call her father, The powerful monarch Of far spreading fame. His daughter close guarded He haughtily holds; All wooers rejecting, Who cannot excel him In throwing the hammer. And no less the maiden All men avoideth, Man-like her own mood. With good cause she boasteth Herself in deep riddles Above all the Skalds Skilful to be. 'Breaker of men's wits' In dread and in envy, They call her in Nordland. To every wooer Who fain her proud spirit In wedlock would bind, Tells she the same Close sealed riddle; For none--not the wisest-- Has ever yet solved it. Then scornfully laughing, With her sharp scissors, --For so runs the statute-- To shame him, she sheareth From the hero his hair."