“This life, too, hath its atonement—dim type of that still higher yet to come. Earth is but Heaven’s shadow; human life the outer court of Balder’s heavenly temple. Decked with purple is the proud steed led to sacrifice—a symbol, rightly read, that blood is the red dawn of every day of grace. Yet by the sacrifice of no other may thine own guilt be redeemed. The wrongs that man commits he must himself atone for. The sacrifice All-Father demands from thee, more sweet to him than blood and reek of victim, is thy fierce hate and burning vengeance offered on the altar of thy heart. If thou slay not these, then little will this proud arched temple serve thee. Not with piled-up stones mayst thou atone to Balder. First with thyself and with thy foe be reconciled; then, Frithiof, shalt thou have the bright god’s pardon. “Hear now, what wondrous news hath reached us from the South: there, so ’tis said, was a new Balder, born of a pure Virgin, sent by the great All-Father to lead man to atonement. Peace was his war-cry; his bright sword, Love; crowning his helm, the dove of Innocence. Pure was his life and pure were his teachings; dying, he forgave. Palms wave above his far-off grave, but still his teachings spread from vale to vale, melting hard hearts, joining hand to hand, upraising such a realm of Peace as never yet was seen upon the earth. But little know I of this creed, alas! yet oft in better moments dimly I gaze upon its streaming light, and loud my heart proclaims to me the time will come when it shall also spread through all the North. Levelled then will be our grave-mounds; lost in the stream of time our names, while other men shall flourish, other chieftains reign. Ye happier race, who then shall drink from the New Light’s shining goblet, I greet ye in the spirit. Hail! all hail! Despise us not whose eager gaze hath ceaselessly sought the radiant light of Heaven! Scorn not those to whom the divine ray was still wrapped in veiling shadows! The All-Father hath many envoys—He Himself is One! “Frithiof, thou hatest Bele’s sons; but wherefore? Because, proud of their descent from Seming, Odin’s royal offspring, they did refuse their sister’s hand to thee. But ‘birth is chance,’ thou sayst, ‘not merit.’ Know, my son, man ever boasts of fortune, not of merit. Thou art proud of thy strength and of thy glorious deeds; but didst thou give thyself this force? Was it not Thor who strung thy sinewy arm firm as the oak limb? Is it not God-sprung courage that throbs so joyously within thy breast? Beside thy cradle the Norns sang hero-songs to thee. Thus are thy noblest gifts no merit, but thy fortune,—of no more worth than that of which the princes boast. Condemn not, judge not, others’ pride,—then none will judge thine own. King Helge is no more—” “What! Helge dead!” cried Frithiof, starting. “Where and how came he to his death?”