Ha'vama'l.
I trust my sword; I trust my steed;
But most I trust myself at need,'"
the fair-haired scald sang exultingly to the Danishmen sprawled around the
camp-fire. It was to no graceful love-song that his harp lent its swelling
chords, but to a stern chant of mighty deeds, whose ringing notes sped through
the forest like the bearers of war-arrows, knocking at the door of each
sleeping echo until it awoke and carried on the summons.
Echoes awoke as well in the breasts of those who listened. When the minstrel
laid aside his harp for his cup, Snorri Scar-Cheek brought his fist down in a
mighty blow upon the earth. "To hear such words and know one's self doomed to
wallow in mast!"
A dozen shaggy heads wagged surly acquiescence. But from the figure
outstretched upon the splendid bearskin a harsh voice sounded. "Now! see that
because you lie in mast you have a swine's wit," it said. "Do you want the
thrall to stand forth and prove for the hundredth time that their bins must
needs be as empty as your head?"
Venturing no more than a growl, the man dropped his chin back upon his fists.
But Brown-Cloak, the English serf, found somewhere the notion that here was an
opportunity to rehearse once more the service which was his sole claim upon
his new masters' indulgence, and he got on his legs accordingly.
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