Asa's dress and figure.
"Behold," I cried, "thy spear, thou crafty Rota!
Late at a Jotun's foot I found it lying,
Sent from the Leir-King's hand; it still was buzzing,
For strong is Hother's arm; I knew the weapon,
And I, who trusted in thy art, I shouted.
Now ill it stands with yonder mountain Jotun;
But loud he laugh'd, and straight the lance upsnatching,
He shiver'd it, and here, O crafty Rota!
Here bring I back to thee the precious fragments!"
With joy I saw her eyes with fury flashing,
She swore by Odin's arm, by all the powers,
And by the highest Godhead--by Allfather,
Restless to search till she a spear discover'd
With power to slay the strongest son of Ymer,
And all who could be slain. She swore and vanished.
Then seem'd it--then, by Haela's mists, then seem'd it
As if fate only for that oath had waited.
Three times above me thunder'd the high Norna;
She spake; but terrible is Skulda's thunder;
I cannot bear its sound; I swift departed;
But soon was conscious of our spear's discovery.
Then thou didst call-- But hear the heavy pinions!
'Tis she! 'tis Rota! I aside must hasten;
For Valhall's maids detest me. [LOKE goes aside.

HOTHER, and presently the Valkyrie ROTA.

HOTHER (he pursues LOKE with a contemptuous look). Outcast!
Ha! dastard slave! and thou didst swear me friendship!
No, ne'er hast thou been Hother's friend, thou traitor,
But the sworn enemy of the gods and virtue!

ROTA (handing him the fatal spear with a half-averted countenance). Here,
son of Hothbrod! here, my much-lov'd warrior!
Receive this spear, and use it as--

HOTHER. Thou weepest!

ROTA. Thou saw'st my tear--dear and noble the blood is
Which it forebodes; but do thou use this weapon!
Yet 'tis no gift of mine--'tis that of Skulda.

HOTHER. I know thou fearest for the generous Balder;
But, noble maid, if thou my heart see'st into,
Thou know'st that he is safe as Thor in Valhall.

ROTA. Think'st thou to thwart the Norna's will, young hero?
She pointed out the hidden tree; she bade me
Break off the bough of death; she bade me harden
Its point in Nastroud's flames; she-- But what will I?
My tears are wasted, like thy noble project.
Well, then: use thou this spear! Death is its surname,
And whom it smites eternal sleep shall fetter
In Haelheim's silent night, if he is mortal;
The immortal demon, whose eye by hate and wickedness
Is clouded, 'twill plunge to torments of a thousand winters.
Mark that, and use it well!