The winter passed, and again were hill and valley, grove and forest, clothed with bloom and verdure. Then Frithiof thanked his host, and, bidding him farewell, was soon speeding joyously away across the foaming main. Six times the sun rose and set, and the seventh morning found him near his journey’s end. Consumed with longing, Frithiof rose early and mounted to the deck. There, veiled in the mists of dawn, he saw his native shores and heard the familiar rushing of its mountain streams. Light as a bird flew “Ellida” o’er the dancing waves and in her swelling sails the western breezes sang like nightingales. Just as the first ray of sunlight fell on land and sea they entered the well-known haven. “Past the green birch woods now,” cried Frithiof to Björn, “and Framnäs greets me!” With beating heart and gleaming eyes he waited—but what is this? Is he bewitched? There lies the open space where his forefathers built their dwelling, yet naught is to be seen of it. Do his eyes deceive him? He rubs them and looks again at the familiar spot; but neither house nor building of any kind is there, only a tall blackened chimney stands out dark against the sky. Looking closer, where Framnäs stood, he sees a great pile of ruins, from which the ashes whirl aloft. “Ellida’s” anchor is dropped, and silently Frithiof approaches the scene of devastation. Stones and charred beams are strewn around or heaped together in confusion; fruit trees stretch forth their shrivelled branches; about the levelled grave-mounds lie the bones of heroes. As Frithiof stands spellbound amid the desolation, his faithful hound Bran comes bounding to meet him. Yelping with joy he leaps upon his master, while out from the dale trots a milk-white courser, neighing and tossing his gold-knotted mane. Frithiof stroked the dog’s head and patted his favorite’s glossy neck; but the shadow on his brow remained unaltered. Then he saw Hilding, his aged foster-father coming toward him with mournful look. “Welcome, father, to the ruins of Framnäs!” he cried, and then added bitterly: “But why should this sight surprise me? ’Tis when the eagle is flown that boys plunder his nest. So thus doth King Helge guard the hut of the peasant; thus he keeps his royal oath! Rage at his dastardly act more moves me than grief for what is lost. But tell me first of all, good father, where is Ingeborg?”