_Helga_ (_drinks from the horn and smiles_).--To your health, sir bishop!
_Botolf_ (_responds after a while to her toast_).--You astonish me! The archbishop appointed me!
_Kolbein_.--No one becomes lawfully bishop of Holar until we of the North Quarter have chosen him. And you we have not chosen, my lord! You are bishop here as long as I will, and no longer. Another matter it is that I shall do all to be at peace with the Holy Church, because the days of my life are probably counted.
_Botolf_.--I have now learned how strong your desire for peace is, Kolbein.
_Helga_.--Remember, my lord, that Kolbein thought it a matter of necessity that you should be his guest for a few days. I have treated you as well, sir, as my work would permit me and you would accept.
_Botolf_.--And yet they say that you more than any other were cause of the state of war that now exists, and that your flattering of me is but dissimulation.
_Helga_.--They are my enemies who tell you that, sir bishop! (HELGA _leaves her seat_. ASBJORN, _who has been speaking with a man, approaches her. They converse together in subdued voice in the foreground_.)
_Asbjorn_.--Shall I tell Kolbein that Brand Kolbeinsson is riding to Flugumyr with eleven followers?
_Helga_.--No! Remember Helgi Skaftason, should he come with Brand.
_Asbjorn_.--Come he will if he is fated to death.
_Asbjorn_.--He is likely to be at Holar in the fort.
_Helga_ (_goes to her seat. Raises her voice_). There is no cheer here to-night. Haf! Have you no song to recite or some tale to tell?
_Haf_ (_advancing to middle of floor_).--I have put together a little song about the present feud.
_Haf_.--Hither I see the ravens winging, They steer their flight to Holar's steeple On their errand bent death bringing; Hard the bishop's bells are ringing: Longest peals great Likabong:[A] 'The Peace of God shall save the people.'
[Footnote A: 'Lyke-knell,' name of the great bell of the Holar Cathedral.]
Heroes head their warlike forces, Mailed fists 'gainst shields are clashing, Over Herad's water-courses Thunder thousand hoofs of horses, Over fords and bridges dashing. Long afar moans Likabong.
Death foretells the cock's dawn-greeting: Many a fey man's fair limbs mangles Soon the sword and spear in meeting. Hot the Northland blood is beating! Low and dull weeps Likabong. The shiv'ring Southron sea-cod angles.