Camped by their fires at night;
Either the iron-sheathed plough
Marking with furrows the soil,
Or the drawing of swords,
To bite the bodies of men;
Either beneath the low roof-tree
The altar-fires of love,

Or the sable ravens of vengeance
Hoarsely croaking around his helm;
Either dream-blessed sleep every night
After a day without care,

Or wrath in its pitiless rage

Ravaging his foeman's land.

Then one among them whispered, "Trand"

As the wind rustles the branches

Shaking off rain-drops, all muttered:

"Trand, where is Trand? Ay, Trand!”

This so sudden and passionate call
Craved but one boon from his speech:
He should yield up his daughter
In pledge for their goods and cattle.
The ancient farmstead of his forbears,
All his inheritance with it,

Should with Ingigerd's snow-white hand
On the highwayman now be bestowed.
Hardly a home in the village

Bore not the mark of Arnljot's sword,

Ruddier yet than his scarlet cloak
Ran the blood from his name.

Stood he there with soft-spoken words,
But the rank of his bloodthirsty crew
Closed like a ring of fire

Round about the proffered peace.

Now should the old man his daughter
Lay in this sinister ring-

Like a sacrificial offering

Doomed to the glowing pyre?

Straight she had grown on the farmstead,

Ripened like corn in the sunshine,

Blithely welcomed its kindly light

Through the window stealing each morning;

Like a fanciful legend she crept

Into his serious musings,

sayest thou, Trand?”

Bringing both tears and laughter
Into his strenuous mood.
"Trand!" rose the cry, "what
Dull the swords fell, and the shields
Rang, while, intent on the barter,
Pressed they all of them forward.
Trand stood pale in the torchlight.
She who bore all the hope of his race
Hid in her blushing thought,

She should be offered up?

She who stood for the only hope

At eventide left to his life,

Should now like a new-kindled light be quenched

In a draught from an open door?

She who laughed where her mother lived,
Recalling the days of his youth,

She should be doomed to wither away,
Torn from her soil by the root?-

Rose to an uproar the shouts and blows,
Reëchoed from every side,

On the stone he must mount,
However might fail him speech.
Terror-stricken, with downcast eyes,

He gazed as upon a dove-cote,

For there stood the daughter before the temple, With a flock of women around her!

Thralls stood about, with torches uplifted;

Hushed were all at the sight:

Thereupon in Trand's bosom

The blood rose surging and boiling.
With flashing eye, and quivering lip,
Cheeks red at the shameful thought,

Down he sprang, cleft a path through the ring,

With youthful vigor renewed,

Straight to his daughter he forced his way,

Raised her up on his shoulder:

"Lift high your torches, thralls,

That they all may behold her!

Deem ye, Iamtlanders, that such a child.
May be traded for goods and cattle?
Deem'st thou her, Arnljot Gelline,

Fit for a highwayman's bride?"
But over her father's shoulder
Ingigerd darted a gentle smile,
Fair as the blush of the dawning

On the ash-gray peak of the mountain.
Her hands she clasped round his head,
In his belt she planted her feet,
Never a strong man's shoulder
A nobler burden bore!

How then were shamed the Iamtlanders, Exultantly bearding Gelline:

"Every man of us here will defend her,

Take her from us, if you can!"

THIRD SONG

THE CAPTURE OF INGIGERD

FOURTEEN nights later Trand and his farmstead
Went up in flames;

The night was calm and the buildings were ancient,
All was soon done.

Only the women-folk and the farmstead cattle
Were saved from the fire.

The men who sought to flee through the smoke
Fell in their tracks.

The threat at the Thing
Fulfilment delayed not.

Before the settlement folk could assemble,
All was over.

From the flames out into the forest

Bore they the booty,

Carried the corn and drove the cattle,
Clearing their way;

Forward forged Arnljot, Ingigerd resting

While all around was tumult and laughter,
Softly he whispered:

"Lately, indeed, O fair-haired maiden,

Wooed I in vain;