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FRITHIOF’S SAGA 61
No man stood forth to strive, nor could find a hard enough
weapon
His skull of iron to wound, and therefore they named him
the Iernhos.
Viking alone, who had just filled fifteen winters, withstood
him,
Fighting with trust in his arm and Angurvadel, with one
stroke
Cleft he the terrible foe to the waist, and rescued the fair
one.
Viking left it to Thorsten, his son, and from Thorsten
descended
Came it to Frithiof at last. When he drew it the hall was
illumined
As by a lightning-flash, or the dazzling gleam of the
north-lights.
Golden thereof was the hilt; with verses the blade of it
written,
Wonderful, strange to the north, but known at the
threshold of sunshine,
Where their fathers had dwelt ere the A sen led them up
northwards.
Dull was the sheen of the Runes as long as was peace in
the nation,
But when Hildur began her sport, then glittered they
blood-red —
Red as the crest of a cock when he fighteth. Lost was the
foeman
Who ever met that flaming sword in the midst of the
battle.
Far was that sword renowned, and of swords the first in
the Northland.
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