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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,
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