tricks, was likewise quickened, as though by inspiration from on high,
to seize the opportunity of feigning to be a god; and, wrapping the
minds of the barbarians in fresh darkness, he led them by the renown of
his jugglings to pay holy observance to his name. He said that the
wrath of the gods could never be appeased nor the outrage to their deity
expiated by mixed and indiscriminate sacrifices, and therefore forbade
that prayers for this end should be put up without distinction,
appointing to each of those above his especial drink-offering. But when
Odin was returning, he cast away all help of jugglings, went to Finland
to hide himself, and was there attacked and slain by the inhabitants.
Even in his death his abominations were made manifest, for those who
came nigh his barrow were cut off by a kind of sudden death; and after
his end, he spread such pestilence that he seemed almost to leave a
filthier record in his death than in his life: it was as though he would
extort from the guilty a punishment for his slaughter. The inhabitants,
being in this trouble, took the body out of the mound, beheaded it, and
impaled it through the breast with a sharp stake; and herein that people
found relief.

The death of Odin's wife revived the ancient splendour of his name,
and seemed to wipe out the disgrace upon his deity; so, returning from
exile, he forced all those, who had used his absence to assume the
honours of divine rank, to resign them as usurped; and the gangs of
sorcerers that had arisen he scattered like a darkness before the
advancing glory of his godhead. And he forced them by his power not only
to lay down their divinity, but further to quit the country, deeming
that they, who tried to foist themselves so iniquitously into the skies,
ought to be outcasts from the earth.

Meanwhile Asmund, the son of Swipdag, fought with Hadding to avenge his
father. And when he heard that Henry his son, his love for whom he set
even before his own life, had fallen fighting valiantly, his soul longed
for death, and loathed the light of day, and made a song in a strain
like this:

"What brave hath dared put on my armour? The sheen of the helmet serves
not him who tottereth, nor doth the breastplate fitly shelter him that
is sore spent. Our son is slain, let us riot in battle; my eager love
for him driveth me to my death, that I may not be left outliving my dear
child. In each hand I am fain to grasp the sword; now without shield le