number, one of the victors, Hialmar, dying of the wounds which he had received.[69]
This relation by the Danish historian, which, with the exception of the magical incidents, is probably true, is too simple for the Scalds, who have reared on this basis a long and most ingenious narrative—one that may aspire to the dignity of an epic. We dwell upon it, however, not for the fancy that created it, but for the light which it throws upon the manners of the period. In ancient times there reigned a king called Swafurlam, whose grandfather had received the dominion from the awful hands of Odin himself. He was no less valiant than his ancestor. He had no sooner succeeded to the inheritance than he was called to revenge his father’s death on a famous giant, the terror of the north. He killed the monster, and took to wife Frida, the beautiful daughter of the slain. Such adventures are of perpetual occurrence in the histories of the north. The life of no chief was secure; at any moment he might be surprised and slain, or defied to mortal combat, by one his superior in strength or skill. In the event of his fall, his wife, his children, all he had, became the property of the victor. In general, the Norwegian maiden—if she had no prior attachment—passed without much reluctance into the arms of her father’s murderer. That father she could not by her tears recall to life; and she might be happy with one who had acted in conformity with the manners of the age, and who certainly might be able to protect her, in a state of society in which women stood most in need of protection. Frida was satisfied with her lot; so far, at least, as Swafurlam was concerned. She had, indeed, reason to lament that a daughter was the only issue of their union; that no Herculean boys were rising before her to protect both herself and her husband, when age should have bent his sinewy frame. That period she knew must come, though Time might do his work more slowly with him than with less vigorous men. But it was not his lot to fall into “the sear and yellow leaf.” Before his strength had time to leave him, there arrived in those parts a champion, whose object was to defy and vanquish every hero of note. This was Arngrim, who had never yet fled before mortal man; who in every duel had been victorious. Swafurlam did not much relish the approaching struggle. Still less did Frida, who could not avoid remembering the death of her father, or fearing that her husband might share the same fate. Eyvor, too, their beautiful daughter, was apprehensive of the result; for this Arngrim, who was young and vigorous, while her father was past life’s meridian, was a berserk, that is, shirtless—one that wore no defensive armour—that trusted only to his own strength, which, during certain fits of madness, was increased in a prodigious measure. When these fits were on him he despised steel, water, fire, as much as if they were harmless; nor did he care whether the foe he had to oppose were one or one thousand. He, therefore, was not likely to prove an invincible husband—to atone for the loss of a father. To conceal his uneasiness, or rather to divert that ominous feeling which men sometimes experience on the eve of a great crisis, Swafurlam went into the mountains to hunt.[70] A beautiful white stag soon appeared in sight, and was as soon pursued; but nothing could equal the creature’s provoking coolness. It was not frightened; it was not hurried; it ran, then turned round as if waiting for its pursuers, and just when they believed they were on the point of seizing it, it bounded forward to delude them a second time. Never was the king so ardent in the sport. Night descended; still he rode on; and the beams of the full unclouded moon enabled him to see everything nearly as well as in the broad daylight. Midnight came; still the hunters were following the stag. But it suddenly disappeared through an opening in the rocks, leaving Swafurlam in a terrible rage at the loss of his prey. Two dwarfs—so the Icelanders call the fairies—issued from the opening, and these he drew his sword to destroy, when, remembering that the whole race were skilful in the manufacture of enchanted weapons, he promised to spare their lives on the condition that, within three days, they would make him one that should never miss its blow—that should never rust—that should cut the hardest steel as easily as leather—that should always bring victory to the owner. The covenant was made; and, at the end of three days, Swafurlam returned for the weapon. It was ready for him, and on one side of the blade was written—
Draw me not, unless in fray;
Drawn, I pierce; and piercing, slay.
And he was at the same time cautioned, though in terms somewhat oracular, to beware of the weapon. On his return home he found that Arngrim had reached it. The latter was treated with the utmost hospitality. For him the sable hams were soaked and boiled, the wild fowl were placed on the spit, vegetables boiled, new bread made, the ale cask tapped, the table spread with the abundant feast, and the minstrel’s song made to enliven an entertainment which the fine hands of mother and daughter had prepared, and which both honoured with their presence. This was, truly, more than Homeric: the most magnanimous of Grecian dames would not have thus welcomed the man who was about to engage in mortal conflict with husband or brother. The feelings of the wife, indeed, on beholding the sinewy frame of the guest, must have been painful: her heart failed her; and she was glad when the increasing power of the cup authorised her and her daughter to retire. The following day her worst fears were verified. Though Swafurlam, at the first onset, cleft in two the shield of his adversary, the very force of his blow was fatal to him: he struck his magic sword into the ground, and, before he could withdraw it, his right hand was amputated by the berserk, who snatched the weapon from the lifeless member and gave the king a mortal wound in the head. Eyvor became the wife of the victor, who bore her, no less than the spoils of her father’s palace, to his Norwegian home.[71]
It was now Eyvor’s turn to be anxious. Might not a warrior, still more valiant than her husband, arrive, and render her, like her mother, a forsaken widow? Might not the weapon which had cost her father his life prove equally fatal to one dearer? Often did she request him to bury it under ground; but he was in no humour to part with his most valued treasure, especially as it enabled him to return invincible from all his expeditions. Her fears, however, for him were vain: they should have been excited for her twelve sons, whom she bore in twelve years after her marriage, and who were all warriors—all berserks—all doomed to an early grave. One of them vowed to the god Braga that he would have to wife the princess Ingburga, or perish in the attempt. As all were brothers in arms no less than brothers in blood, all bound to assist each individual of the number, to make the cause of each a common cause, they took the same view. Arngrim, now waxen in years, took his leave of them with a heavy heart; he felt that he must see them no more; and his only consolation was, that when the Nornies, or fatal sisters, call, they will be obeyed. They had to fight on the desert isle of Samsoe with two heroes, Hialmar and Oddur, each at the head of a hundred Swedes, and each renowned for prowess throughout the north. The former, too, was the accepted lover of Ingburga, accepted by her father no less than by herself. On their way to the island, the eldest of Arngrim’s twelve sons, Angantyr, took to wife Swafa, the daughter of a celebrated jarl, and their course was much delayed by the festivities demanded on the occasion. This jarl had the same dark forebodings as their own father. Fain would he have persuaded them to remain with them; but their honour would not allow of this, and away they sailed. On their landing at the place appointed, their accustomed fit seized them, and they destroyed the 200 followers of Hialmar and Oddur, who were then absent in the interior of the island. Mighty was the destruction, by Tyrfing, which was wielded by the powerful Angantyr, and which, on this occasion, might truly be called the death of men. Hialmar and Oddur soon returned to find their companions drenched in gore; but, fortunately for the two heroes, the strength of the berserks was now greatly diminished—in other words, the fit was over, and they were become like other men. Still the magic sword and the superiority of numbers compensated to the sons of Arngrim for their somewhat exhausted spirits. They would have more than compensated had not Oddur worn a quilted coat, which magic rendered impenetrable to the keenest weapon. The conflict soon engaged. On the one hand, Hialmar was opposed to Angantyr with the magic sword; on the other, Oddur, with the magic quilt, encountered, one by one in succession, the eleven brothers of Angantyr. After a terrible struggle of some length, Hialmar fell, pierced by the dreaded Tyrfing, but Angantyr also received a mortal wound, and Oddur slew all his eleven antagonists. The dead were buried by the only survivor, the fatal sword being buried along with Angantyr, according to the last request of that hero.[72]
The widow of Angantyr bemoaned the death of her valiant husband. For a time she refused
