ere surrounded
with an unbroken ring of flame. Then Angantyr cried:

The barrows are opening! Before thy gaze
The round of the island is all ablaze,
And the gate of Hell stands wide.
There are spectres abroad that are ghastly to see.
Return, little maiden, right hastily
To thy ship that waits on the tide.

She replied:

No funeral fire that burns by night
Can make me tremble with affright,
Or fear of awful doom.
Thy daughter's heart can know no fear,
Though a ghost before her should appear
In the doorway of the tomb.

Angantyr:

O Hervoer, Hervoer, hearken to me!
Nought save the truth will I tell to thee
That will surely come about!
Believe me, maiden, Tyrfing will be
A curse upon all thy progeny
Till thy race be blotted out.

A son shalt thou bear, as I prophesy,
Who shall fight with Tyrfing mightily,
And trust to Tyrfing's might.
I tell thee Heithrek shall be his name,
The noblest man and of greatest fame
Of all under Heaven's light.

Hervoer:

On all you dead this curse I cry:--
Mouldering and rotting shall ye lie
With the spirits in the tomb!
Out of the barrow, Angantyr,
Give me the keen-edged Tyrfing here,
The sword called 'Hjalmar's Doom'!

Angantyr:

Surely unlike to a mortal thou
To wander about from howe to howe,
And stand in the doorway here!
In the horror of night-time, my little maid,
Thou comest with helmet and byrnie and blade,
And shakest thy graven spear!

Hervoer:

A mortal maiden is she who comes,
Arousing the corpses within their tombs,
And will not be denied:--
Give me from out the barrow's shade
The keen-edged sword that the dwarf-folk made,
Which it ill becomes thee to hide!

Angantyr:

The sword that the death-stroke to Hjalmar gave
Lies under my shoulders within the grave,
And wrapped about with flame.
But that maiden lives not in any land
Who dare grasp the weapon within her hand
For any hope of fame.

Hervoer:

There lives, O Angantyr, a maid
Who yearns to handle the keen-edged blade,
And such a maid am I!
And what care I though the tomb fires blaze!
They sink and tremble before my gaze,
They quiver out and die!

Angantyr:

O Hervoer, 'tis folly and madness dire