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164
164 FRITHIOF’S SAGA
And ashes whirl round the lonely strand.
In fury down from his ship he hasteth;
A glance on his ruined dwelling casteth,—
His father’s dwelling—his childhood’s home.
Now Bran, the wiry-haired, doth come,
His dog, who often, as true as bold,
For him the wild bears helped to hold;
Full high he leapeth with many a spring,
In joy his master welcoming.
The milk-white steed, with the golden mane,
With stag-swift hoofs, and with lengthy rein,
Which Frithiof so oft had ridden around,
Speeds through the valley with eager bound,
And, neighing gladly, archeth his neck,
And bread from his master’s hand doth seek.
But Frithiof, poorer than the pair,
Hath naught with the faithful brutes to share.
Houseless and sad, on his father’s ground,
Now Frithiof standeth, gazing round;
Until of Hilding he is ’ware,
His foster-sire, with silvery hair: —
"At what I see I scarce can wonder,
When the eagle flieth, the nest they plunder.
Is this the way that a king should guard? —
Well holdeth Helge his royal word;
For heavenly dread, and human hate,
And plundering flames, are his Eriksgate:
Yet this brings rather rage than care:
But tell me where is Ingborg, where?"
"The tale I ’11 tell thee," the old man said;
"Though I fear thou ’It find it but little glad.
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