The great drinking-hall was so spacious that six hundred guests would scarcely fill it. Round the wall extended a table of polished oak, and on either side of the high-seat images of the gods were skilfully carved from elm wood, one representing the All-Father Odin, the other Frey, who rules over the rain and sunshine. Over the high-seat where Thorsten had sat for so many years a glossy black bearskin, with scarlet jaws and the claws tipped with silver, was thrown. Midway of the hall was the great hearth of smoothly polished stone, whence the dancing flames shot ceaselessly upward; and suspended around the walls, helm and shield and sword glittered in the reflection of the blaze. Rich indeed was the dwelling: abundance everywhere met the eye,—crowded presses, well-filled cellars and store-rooms; while many a jewel, spoil of many a conquest, lay hidden in close-locked chests. But the three most precious possessions of the house were famed throughout the land. Of these the first was a sword, called Angurvadel, or Brother of Lightning. Forged by dwarfs in some far Eastern land, Frithiof’s ancestors had wrought with it many heroic deeds. The hilt was of hammered gold, and the blade was covered with strange runes, the meaning of which was unknown save to those who forged it in the distant Orient. When Frithiof drew it from the sheath, it flashed like the lightning or the streaming Northern Lights. Moreover, a magic power belonged to this wondrous heirloom: so long as peace ruled the land the runes on the blade gleamed dull and pale, but when war prevailed they burned red as the comb of a fighting cock.