Sigurd's secret was safely kept. Ulf, to the day of his death, knew nothing of his brother's journey to Niflheim; nor could he tell the reason why the loyalty of his soldiers revived from that time forward. He died in battle not long after, yet he lived long enough to repent of his harshness towards his brother, and to desire to see him again. Messengers from him were on their way to the Tower of the North-West Wind at the time when he fell on the field of Brulform. Sigurd's first act after becoming king was to erect a monument on the spot where Ulf fell, with this simple inscription, which may be read to this day, "To my Brother." CHAPTER SIX. Sub-Chapter I. MY FIRST TRAGEDY. FOREWORD. I have admired tragedy from my earliest days. I believe I must have acted in it in the nursery--at least the scenes I have in my mind appeared to me to be tragic at the time, although it was not of my own will that I participated in them. The occasions, for instance, when I was stood in the corner for misconduct at table, or thrashed by my big brother for my "cheek," or dosed with castor oil by the doctor for "mulligrubs," all stand out in my memory as tragic, and no doubt prepared me to appreciate tragedy later on as a fine art. As soon as I went to school I found still more extended opportunities for studying that art. Tragedy dogged my footsteps and marked me for her own from the first. I was bullied; that was bad enough. I was caned; that was worse. I had to learn Latin verbs; that was worst of all. I was a practised tragedian at seven. Acts one, two, and three were performed as a rule once a day, and now and then encored. The worst of it was that the person who got most of the applause was not the wretched actor, but the author. I was quite overlooked. This convinced me early that it is more profitable to make tragedies for other people to act than to act in them oneself; and at a tender age, therefore, I set before myself the profession of a tragic author. For long enough, however, I had to wait my inspiration. I was kept so busy in the capacity of actor (from which my special talents would not permit me to retire as early as I should myself have wished) that it was comparatively late in life--I mean I had turned twelve--before the grand idea of writing a tragedy dawned in my ardent breast. Even then it was destined to simmer for three or four years, owing to pressure of other work and the still more pressing lack of a subject.