Bones should be crashing fast, Wolves should be
full-fed, Where'er such, mad-hearted, Swing hands in the sword-play.'

Sweetly laughed Freya-- 'A name thou hast given them-- Shames neither
thee nor them, Well can they wear it. Give them the victory, First have
they greeted thee; Give them the victory, Yokefellow mine! Maidens and
wives are these-- Wives of the Winils; Few are their heroes And far on
the war-road, So over the swans' bath They cry unto thee.'

Royally laughed he then; Dear was that craft to him, Odin Allfather,
Shaking the clouds. 'Cunning are women all, Bold and importunate!
Longbeards their name shall be, Ravens shall thank them: Where the women
are heroes, What must the men be like? Theirs is the victory; No need of
me!'

[Footnote: This punning legend may be seen in Paul Warnefrid's _Gesta
Langobardorum_. The metre and language are intended as imitations of
those of the earlier Eddaic poems.]

'There!' said Wulf, when the song was ended; 'is that cool enough for
you?'

'Rather too cool; eh, Pelagia?' said the Amal, laughing.

'Ay,' went on the old man, bitterly enough, 'such were your mothers; and
such were your sisters; and such your wives must be, if you intend to
last much longer on the face of the earth--women who care for something
better than good eating, strong drinking, and soft lying.'

'All very true, Prince Wulf,' said Agilmund, 'but I don't like the saga
after all. It was a great deal too like what Pelagia here says those
philosophers talk about--right and wrong, and that sort of thing.'

'I don't doubt it.'

'Now I like a really good saga, about gods and giants, and the fire
kingdoms and the snow kingdoms, and the Aesir making men and women out
of two sticks, and all that.'

'Ay,' said the Amal, 'something like nothing one ever saw in one's
life, all stark mad and topsy-turvy, like one's dreams when one has been
drunk; something grand which you cannot understand, but which sets you
thinking over it all the morning after.'

'Well,' said Goderic, 'my mother was an Alruna-woman, so I will not be
the bird to foul its own nest. But I like to hear about wild beasts and
ghosts, ogres, and fire-drakes, and nicors--something that one could
kill if one had a chance, as one's fathers had.'

'Your fathers would never have killed nicors,' said Wulf, 'if they had
been--'

'Like us--I know,' said the Amal. 'Now tell me, prince, you are old
enough to be our father; and did you ever see a