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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,
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