It is just 30 years before the Norman conquest of England, the evening of the battle of Sticklestead. St. Olaf’s corpse is still lying unburied on the hillside. The reforming and Christian king has fallen in the attempt to force Christianity and despotism on the Conservative and half-heathen party—the free bonders or yeoman-farmers of Norway. Thormod, his poet,—the man, as his name means, of thunder mood—who has been standing in the ranks, at last has an arrow in his left side. He breaks off the shaft, and thus sore wounded goes up, when all is lost, to a farm where is a great barn full of wounded. One Kimbe comes, a man out of the opposite or bonder part. ‘There is great howling and screaming in there,’ he says. ‘King Olaf’s men fought bravely enough: but it is a shame brisk young lads cannot bear their wounds. On what side wert thou in the fight?’ ‘On the best side,’ says the beaten Thormod. Kimbe sees that Thormod has a gold bracelet on his arm. ‘Thou art surely a king’s man. Give me thy gold ring and I will hide thee, ere the bonders kill thee.’ Thormod said, ‘Take it, if thou canst get it. I have lost that which is worth more;’ and he stretched out his left hand, and Kimbe tried to take it. But Thormod, swinging his sword, cut off his hand; and it is said Kimbe behaved no better over his wound than those he had been blaming. Then Thormod went into the barn; and after he had sung his song there in praise of his dead king, he went into an inner room, where was a fire, and water warming, and a handsome girl binding up men’s wounds. And he sat down by the door; and one said to him ‘Why art thou so dead pale? Why dost thou not call for the leech?’ Then sung Thormod— I am not blooming; and the fair And slender maiden loves to care For blooming youths. Few care for me, With Fenri’s gold meal I can’t fee; and so forth, improvising after the old Norse fashion. Then Thormod got up and went to the fire, and stood and warmed himself. And the nurse-girl said to him, ‘Go out man, and bring some of the split-firewood which lies outside the door.’ He went out and brought an armful of wood and threw it down. Then the nurse-girl looked him in the face and said, ‘Dreadful pale is this man. Why art thou so?’ Then sang Thormod— Thou wonderest, sweet bloom, at me, A man so hideous to see. The arrow-drift o’ertook me, girl, A fine-ground arrow in the whirl Went through me, and I feel the dart Sits, lovely lass, too near my heart.