Last of the three family treasures was the good ship “Ellida.” Frithiof’s ancestor, Wiking, so it was said, returning once from a foray, discovered on his own shores a shipwrecked man. Tall he looked and nobly formed, with an open countenance, whose expression was constantly changing like the glancing of waves in the sunlight. Sea-green floated his hair, white as wave-foam his beard. A blue mantle enveloped his form, and the golden belt he wore was set with corals. Steering directly to the spot, Wiking rescued the unfortunate, took him to his home, and feasted him right nobly. But when at night the stranger was offered a bed he shook his head, smiling: “Fair is the wind and my ship a good one,” he said, “and many a mile I hope to leave behind me ere the break of day. Naught but thanks have I to offer thee in return for thy hospitality, for my wealth lies deep beneath the ocean wave. Yet in the morning it may be thou wilt find some gift from me upon the shore.” At daybreak Wiking hastened to the shore, and lo! with the swiftness of the sea-eagle darting upon its prey there came flying into the haven one of the warships commonly known as dragons. Not a soul was to be seen on board, neither steersman nor rowers; yet unerringly the rudder guided its winding course amid rocks and shoals. As it neared the land, the sails furled themselves, the anchor fell, and the slender vessel rested quietly upon the sandy beach. As Wiking stood gazing in astonishment at all this, voices sounded from the dancing waves. They chanted: The man thou didst rescue and shelter Was Ægir, the lord of the sea; He forgets not his debt. See—yon dragon He sendeth as token to thee. Royal, indeed, was the gift of the sea-god. The solid beams of the ship were not joined in the usual way, but grown together. Long and dragon-shaped it lay upon the water, the head reared high, wide jaws gleaming red with gold, the body speckled with blue and gold, and ending at the rudder in a coiling tail covered with silver scales. Black were the sails, with edgings of gold, and when each was full stretched, the ship flew like the storm wind, swifter than the sea-eagle. With all these treasures and more besides, Frithiof, next to the two kings, was the richest man in all the land. Kingly of nature was he, if not by birth, and gentle and noble in word and deed. Twelve mighty champions had he ever beside him, tried comrades of his dead father. Among these graybeards, like a rose set in a wreath of withered leaves, was a youth called Björn, joyous as a child, yet with the strength of manhood and the wisdom of age. Frithiof had grown up with him, and together they had sworn blood-brotherhood. Sorrowfully amid these heroes sat Frithiof in the high-seat draining the mead horn at his father’s grave-feast, after the custom of his ancestors, while with a heavy heart he listened to the thundering hero-songs sounded in praise of the departed.