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j FRITHIOF’S SAGA 167
The black bird back to Nastrand flies; but, borne along
on shining wings,
With song as sweet as tuneful harp, the white one up to
sunshine springs.
Straight the old King, waking, quoth," Much rest did my
short sleep afford;
’T is sweet to slumber in the shade, protected by a brave
man’s sword;
But where, oh! stranger, is thy blade, the lightning’s
brother, whither sped?
And who hath separated you, so little wont to separate ?"
" It matters little," Frithiof said," for swords are plenty in
the North;
Sharp-tongued is the blade, O King; no word of peace it
speaketh forth:
W ithin the steel doth evil dwell, a spirit dark from Niffelhem;
Against him sleep no safety hath; gray hairs are but a
snare to him."
" Dissembled was my slumber, youth, to prove thee," aged
Ring replied;
" The wise should never trust himself to man or sword of
man untried.
Thou art Frithiof; when my hall thou entered’st I knew
thee well:
Old Ring hath long been ’ware of what his guest sought to
conceal.
"Wherefore, thus disguised and nameless, ’neath my
roof-tree didst thou glide?
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