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62 FRITHIOF’S SAGA
A hole in her silver roof she hath reft,
Down sinketh the sleigh in the yawning cleft.
How pale groweth Ingeborg’s cheek with fear!
The guest, like a whirlwind, cometh near:
His skate he hath fixed on the icy field;
The steed by the mane he hath seized and held;
With a single tug he setteth amain
Both steed and sleigh on the ice again.
"Praise to that stroke," quoth Ring, "is due;
Not Frithiof, the mighty, could better do."
Now turn they back to the court again,
Till spring the stranger doth there remain.
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