Frithiof laughed and his eyes flashed as he answered, “The gods take no heed of rank. With them valor is all. They will spurn him who fails in courage, even though he be of their own blood; but him who strives with all his soul to imitate them in godlike deeds they will hold in honor. The fame I have already won for myself by slaying the beasts of the forest shall count as much for me as if my ancestral line stretched up to Odin’s halls!” “Alas for this love of thine!” cried Hilding. “I fear me ’twill bear thee naught but thorns. My old eyes were dim that I saw not what mischief was brewing.” “Nay, father, say not so!” answered Frithiof. “Never till this day have I thought to win Ingeborg for my wife. ’Tis but now my heart hath revealed its yearnings for her and her alone in all the world. But I swear to thee by all the gods that never shall her image be banished thence. If need be, my sword shall be my wooer. Aye! I would contend for her with the Thunder-God himself; nor will I give her up so long as life shall last. Yet of this I will say naught to her father, but sue for her in due form after the manner of our forefathers.” As Frithiof thus spoke, Ingeborg sat in her chamber, her thoughts also busy with him. In his form she seemed to see the fair young god Balder, and prayed the gods to guard the noble youth and grant him fame and honor. Chapter III King Bele and Thorsten King Bele and Thorsten, his faithful old brother-in-arms, were now bowed with the weight of years, like two ruined temples upon whose walls are graven runes of wisdom still powerful to stir the hearts of reverent beholders. One day the King said to Thorsten: “My friend, the evening of life draws on; no longer has the mead its wonted flavor, and heavy grows the helm upon my weary head. The world grows dim before my eyes, but clear and bright toward me streams the light of Valhalla. Therefore I have summoned our sons hither. As we have ever stood fast by each other, so it is my wish that they should do. With this and other matters I would charge the young eagles ere my lips are sealed by death.” The three youths soon entered the royal hall, Helge, the eldest first. Pale and gloomy of countenance was he, as if the terrors of the death-kingdom had set their seal upon him. With blood-stained hands, fresh from the sacrificial grove he came, for he was wont to tarry there, communing with seers and soothsayers. Behind him followed Halfdan, his brother, whose bright locks framed a face noble, indeed, of feature but weak and effeminate in expression. The sword at his side seemed worn but in jest, and he looked like some fair maid who had sportively donned the garb of a hero. Last came Frithiof, a blue mantle hanging from his shoulders and taller by a head than his companions. As the three stood before the King, it was like the bright noonday between rosy morn and dusky night.