On the morrow Brandomann relieved her anxiety, which had been awakened by the sight of the falling star, lest her father’s should no more have a seat in the heavens, nor himself a name on the earth. “A mild and gracious being hath left us,” said he, “for the happier scenes of Asgard; Sevald is dead—the virtuous son of the abandoned Frotho is no more—he fell, as became his race, in the battle-field, contending against your victorious father and his kinsman Harold, against whom the tyrant rages and vows destruction, as now the only rival he has to fear.” The princess was satisfied by this explanation, the more especially as the first day of the month again presented the person of her father, though surrounded by the bustle of war.
“WHENCE is it, Brandomann,” said Sleipner one evening to the Scaldre, “that among those of the heroes whose virtues and glories you are nightly celebrating, I never heard the actions of Odin; why, while thus honouring his friends, are you neglectful of the great father of our race? Surely he, from whom all inspiration flows, deserves the best, ay, and the finest fruits of your genius!” “It was only because I feared my feeble strains would not do justice to the lofty subject,” replied Brandomann; “the glory of the father of gods and men requires a mightier hand than mine to celebrate it; Brage alone should strike the golden chord to his honour—alone should sing of deeds beyond the feeble thought of mortality; that which I can, I will; I dare not wake the voice of song, but I will speak of his wondrous deeds, that to-night, in Valhalla, thou mayest tell bright Asgard’s king that I have instructed this lovely maiden what honours and love are due to the first of her race, and the friend of her father. Will it please thee, Ildegarda, to listen to the legend of Sigge?” “Beyond all other things,” replied the princess, pleasedly: and Brandomann, smiling, began—