, and though the land of my birth be bounded, I
shall hold it a debt to repay to the king the twelve kindreds which he
added to my honours. Hearken, warriors! Let none robe in mail his body
that shall perish; let him last of all draw tight the woven steel; let
the shields go behind the back; let us fight with bared breasts,
and load all your arms with gold. Let your right hands receive the
bracelets, that they may swing their blows the more heavily and plant
the grievous wound. Let none fall back! Let each zealously strive to
meet the swords of the enemy and the threatening spears, that we may
avenge our beloved master. Happy beyond all things is he who can mete
out revenge for such a crime, and with righteous steel punish the guilt
of treacheries.

"Lo, methinks I surely pierced a wild stag with the Teutonic sword which
is called Snyrtir: from which I won the name of Warrior, when I felled
Agnar, son of Ingild, and brought the trophy home. He shattered and
broke with the bite the sword Hoding which smote upon my head, and would
have dealt worse wounds if the edge of his blade had held out better.
In return I clove asunder his left arm and part of his left side and
his right foot, and the piercing steel ran down his limbs and smote deep
into his ribs. By Hercules! No man ever seemed to me stronger than he.
For he sank down half-conscious, and, leaning on his elbow, welcomed
death with a smile, and spurned destruction with a laugh, and passed
rejoicing in the world of Elysium. Mighty was the man's courage, which
knew how with one laugh to cover his death-hour, and with a joyous face
to suppress utter anguish of mind and body!

"Now also with the same blade I searched the heart of one sprung from
an illustrious line, and plunged the steel deep in his breast. He was a
king's son, of illustrious ancestry, of a noble nature, and shone with
the brightness of youth. The mailed metal could not avail him, nor his
sword, nor the smooth target-boss; so keen was the force of my steel, it
knew not how to be stayed by obstacles.

"Where, then, are the captains of the Goths, and the soldiery of
Hiartuar? Let them come, and pay for their might with their life-blood.
Who can cast, who whirl the lance, save scions of kings? War springs
from the nobly born: famous pedigrees are the makers of war. For the
perilous deeds which chiefs attempt are not to be done by the ventures
of common men. Renowned nobles are passing away. Lo! Greatest R