O Hervˆr, daughter, why dost thou call Words full of cursing upon us all? Thou goest to meet thy doom! Mad art thou grown, and thy wits are fled; Thy mind is astray, that thou wak'st the dead --The dwellers in the tomb. No father buried me where I lie, Nor other kinsman[1] ... The only two who remained unslain Laid hold on Tyrfing, but now again One only possesses the sword. She answered: Nought save the truth shalt thou tell to me! May the ancient gods deal ill with thee If thou harbour Tyrfing there! Thine only daughter am I, and yet Unwilling thou art that I should get That which belongs to thine heir! It now seemed as if the barrows, which had opened, were surrounded with an unbroken ring of flame. Then Angantyr cried: The barrows are opening! Before thy gaze The round of the island is all ablaze, And the gate of Hell stands wide. There are spectres abroad that are ghastly to see. Return, little maiden, right hastily To thy ship that waits on the tide. She replied: No funeral fire that burns by night Can make me tremble with affright, Or fear of awful doom. Thy daughter's heart can know no fear, Though a ghost before her should appear In the doorway of the tomb. Angantyr: O Hervˆr, Hervˆr, hearken to me! Nought save the truth will I tell to thee That will surely come about! Believe me, maiden, Tyrfing will be A curse upon all thy progeny Till thy race be blotted out. A son shalt thou bear, as I prophesy, Who shall fight with Tyrfing mightily, And trust to Tyrfing's might. I tell thee Heithrek shall be his name, The noblest man and of greatest fame Of all under Heaven's light. Hervˆr: On all you dead this curse I cry:-- Mouldering and rotting shall ye lie With the spirits in the tomb! Out of the barrow, Angantyr, Give me the keen-edged Tyrfing here, The sword called 'Hjalmar's Doom'! Angantyr: Surely unlike to a mortal thou To wander about from howe to howe, And stand in the doorway here! In the horror of night-time, my little maid, Thou comest with helmet and byrnie and blade, And shakest thy graven spear! Hervˆr: A mortal maiden is she who comes, Arousing the corpses within their tombs, And will not be denied:-- Give me from out the barrow's shade The keen-edged sword that the dwarf-folk made, Which it ill becomes thee to hide! Angantyr: The sword that the death-stroke to Hjalmar gave Lies under my shoulders within the grave, And wrapped about with flame. But that maiden lives not in any land Who dare grasp the weapon within her hand For any hope of fame. Hervˆr: