he life-destroying bough, if Asa Loke,
By mighty art and wonderful delusions,
Knows how to work the maidens to his purpose.
He comes! I will conceal myself, and listen.

HOTHER, and presently LOKE--the first dressed like a Norwegian peasant,
with a hunting-spear in his hand; the other undistinguished.

HOTHER (he comes down from the rocks and unbinds the skiers {2} from his
feet ere he steps forward on the scene).

Upon the oak's summit,
A squirrel at play
Deceives with a rustle
The hunter so gay;
He starts, and, low crouching,
His spear he grasps tight,
And, swelling up, boundeth
His hand with delight.

Now quick--be not daunted!
He's coming--take heed!
The bold bear, the old bear,
Doth hitherward speed.
Oh, sound the most pleasant
This ear ever knew!
He cometh--a bigger
This weapon ne'er slew.

Thou sovereign of forests!
Thou pride of thy race!
Oh, fortunate hunter--
Oh, glorious chase!
Now quick! be not daunted,
He comes--be prepared!
Where is he, the savage?
His bellow, who heard?

No more on the oak-top
The squirrel doth play;
Deceived has a rustle
The hunter so gay;
No sound as he listens
His hearing assails,
Save the pattering of leaves
That are moved by the gales.

There comes he--where? Oh, what a foolish stripling
Am I, who here about four days have wandered
In quest of a mere phantom! Surely, Nanna,
Thou dost deceive me--dost but prove thy lover;
And think'st thou, virtuous one, that if a godhead
Came down in light effulgent, and before thee
Knelt and laid heaven at thy feet--Ha! think'st
Thou that fear, base doubt of Nanna's faith and
Honour, would sully Hother's breast? I know thou
Lovest me--thou hast avowed it: what shall then
This wooer avail--this wooer who must not be
Anger'd? Why the deception?

LOKE. Hail, thou son of Hothbrod!

HOTHER (astonished). Ha! scarcely do I know myself!
By Odin,
I look more like a rugged elf than Hother.
And who art thou, that knowest me? who art thou?

LOKE. My name is Vanfred! When thy mother bore thee
I was at hand and swore unto thee friendship.

HOTHER. Grim is thy visage, and thine eye doth promise,
But little good. What dost thou seek?

LOKE. Whom, Skolding,
Whom fearest thou? Why hide in yonder vestments?

HOTHER. I fear? thou warlock! Wise thou wert in speaking
Of friendship!

LOKE. Spare thy wrath my youthful warrior!
Reserve it for thy foes!

HOTHER. They shall not miss it!

LOKE. And yet 'tis plain