“And how great wouldst thou like thy corn land to be?” “I would have the whole ness (peninsula) that goes out into the lake sown with corn every summer.” “And what wouldst thou like best?” he asked of Halfdan. “Cows,” said the boy. “How many wouldst thou like to have?” “So many, that when they went to the lake to drink, they should stand as tight round the lake as they could stand.” “That would be a great house-keeping!” said the king; “and now, Harald, what wouldst thou have?” “Followers.” “And how many of them?” “Oh, so many as would eat up all Halfdan’s cows at a single meal!” Olaf laughed, and said, “Here, mother, thou art bringing up a king.” In fact, Guttorm and Halfdan followed the quiet life of their father, but Harald was of far different temper. When Olaf returned from his exile in Russia, young Harald, who was scarcely fifteen, joined him with all the followers he could muster, and insisted on taking part in the battle of Stiklestad. Olaf told him he was too young; but Harald boldly answered, “I am not so weak but I can handle the sword; and as to that, I have a notion of tying the sword to my hand;” and then the brave boy sung out some verses, composed on the spur of the moment, according to a talent often found among the Northmen, and highly valued: “Our army’s wing, where I shall stand, I will hold good with heart and hand; My mother’s eye shall joy to see, A batter’d, blood-stain’d shield from me. The brave young skald should gaily go Into the fray, change blow for blow; Cheer on his men, gain inch by inch, And from the spear-point never flinch.” Olaf saw plainly that his high-spirited mother had infused her own temper into her youngest son as entirely as into himself, and yielded his consent that Harald should take part in the battle. It was a mournful beginning for a young warrior. Harald beheld the fall of his noble brother, and was himself severely wounded. He was led from the field by a faithful bonder, who hid him in his house; but the spirit of the young minstrel warrior was undaunted, and, during his recovery, he sung thus: “My wounds were bleeding as I rode, And down the hill the bonders strode, Killing the wounded with the sword, The followers of their rightful lord. From wood to wood I crept along, Unnoticed by the bonder throng; ‘Who knows,’ I thought, ‘a day may come, My name may yet be great at home.’”