All night long Geirald walked about his room, not daring to face the fight that lay in front of him, and trying with all his might to discover some means of escaping it. All night long he moved restlessly from door to window; and when the trumpets sounded, and the combatants rode into the field, he alone was missing. The king sent messengers to see what had become of him, and he was found, trembling with fear, hiding under his bed. After that there was no need of any further proof. The combat was declared unnecessary, and the queen pronounced herself quite satisfied, and ready to accept Rosald as her husband. “You forgot one thing,” she said, when they were alone. “I recognized my father’s ring which Hankur the Tall had stolen, on the finger of your right hand, and I knew that it was you and not Geirald who had slain the robber band. I was the page who fought you, and again I saw the ring on your finger, though it was absent from his when he stood before me to claim the prize. That was why I ordered the combat between you, though your faith to your word prevented my plan being successful, and I had to try another. The man who keeps his promise at all costs to himself is the man I can trust, both for myself and for my people.” So they were married, and returned to their own kingdom, which they ruled well and happily. And many years after a poor beggar knocked at the palace gates and asked for money, for the sake of days gone by—and this was Geirald. [From Neuislandischem Volksmärchen.] Hábogi Once upon a time there lived two peasants who had three daughters, and, as generally happens, the youngest was the most beautiful and the best tempered, and when her sisters wanted to go out she was always ready to stay at home and do their work. Years passed quickly with the whole family, and one day the parents suddenly perceived that all three girls were grown up, and that very soon they would be thinking of marriage. “Have you decided what your husband’s name is to be?” said the father, laughingly, to his eldest daughter, one evening when they were all sitting at the door of their cottage. “You know that is a very important point!” “Yes; I will never wed any man who is not called Sigmund,” answered she. “Well, it is lucky for you that there are a great many Sigmunds in this part of the world,” replied her father, “so that you can take your choice! And what do YOU say?” he added, turning to the second. “Oh, I think that there is no name so beautiful as Sigurd,” cried she. “Then you won’t be an old maid either,” answered he. “There are seven Sigurds in the next village alone! And you, Helga?” Helga, who was still the prettiest of the three, looked up. She also had her favourite name, but, just as she was going to say it, she seemed to hear a voice whisper: “Marry no one who is not called Hábogi.”