"Forbear from such questions utterly! Foolish and rash must thou surely be, And in a desperate plight! Let us haste from these horrors as fast as we can, For abroad it is ghastly for children of men To wander about in the night." "My necklace of gold is the price I intend To pay for thy guidance; for I am the friend Of vikings, and will not be stayed." "No treasures so costly, nor rings of red gold Shall take me their thrall, or my footsteps withhold, That thereby my flight be gainsaid. "Foolish is he who comes here alone In the fearsome dark when the sun has gone And the flames are mounting high;-- When earth and fen are alike ablaze, And tombs burst open before thy gaze: O faster let us hie!" "Let us never heed for the snorting blaze, Nor fear, though over the island ways Dart tongues of living light. Let us not lightly give way to fear Of the noble warriors buried here, But talk with them tonight." But the shepherd lad fled fast away, Nor stayed to hear what the youth would say, But into the forest sped; While in Hervˆr's breast rose proud and high Her hard-knit heart, as she saw near by The dwellings of the dead. She could now see the fires of the barrows and the ghosts standing outside; and she approached the barrows fearlessly and passed through the fires as if they had been merely smoke, until she reached the barrow of the berserks. Then she cried: V. Awaken, Angantyr, hearken to me! The only daughter of Tofa and thee Is here and bids thee awake! Give me from out the barrow's shade The keen-edged sword which the dwarfs once made For Svafrlami's sake. Hervarth, Hjˆrvarth, Angantyr, And Hrani, under the tree-roots here, I bid you now appear;-- Clad in harness and coat of mail, With shield and broadsword of biting steel, Helmet and reddened spear! The sons of Arngrim are changed indeed To heaps of dust, and Eyfura's seed Has crumbled into mould.-- In Munarvagar will no one speak To her who has come thus far to seek Discourse with the men of old? Hervarth, Hjˆrvarth, Angantyr And Hrani, great be your torment here If ye will not hear my words. Give me the blade that Dvalin made; It is ill becoming the ghostly dead To keep such costly swords! In your tortured ribs shall my curses bring A maddening itch and a frenzied sting, Till ye writhe in agonies, As if ye were laid to your final rest Where the ants are swarming within their nest, And revelling in your thighs! Then answered Angantyr: