"O sun, pale up in heaven, shrink from us if thou wilt, And turn thy face from beholding the shock of guilt with guilt! Stand still, O blood of summer! and let the harvest fade, Till there be nought but fallow where once was bloom and blade! O day, give out but a glimmer of all thy flood of light, If it be but enough for our eyen to see the road of fight! Forget all else and slumber, if still ye let us wake, And our mouths shall make the thunder, and our swords shall the lightening make, And we shall be the storm-wind and drive the ruddy rain, Till the joy of our hearts in battle bring back the day again." As he spake that word they came up through the shallow water dripping on to the bank, and they and the men who abode them on the bank shouted together for joy of fellowship, and all tossed aloft their weapons. The man who had ridden behind Viglund slipped off on to the ground; but Wolfkettle abode in his place behind Geirbald. So the messengers passed on, and the others closed up round about them, and all the throng went up to where Thiodolf was sitting on a rock beneath a sole ash-tree, the face of the Kite's Nest rising behind him on the other side of a bight of the river. There he sat unhelmed with the dwarf-wrought hauberk about him, holding Throng-plough in its sheath across his knees, while he gave word to this and that man concerning the order of the host. So when they were come thither, the throng opened that the messengers might come forward; for by this time had many more drawn near to hearken what was toward. There they sat on their horses, the white and the grey, and Wolfkettle stood by Geirbald's bridle rein, for he had now lighted down; and a little behind him, his head towering over the others, stood Hiarandi great and gaunt. The ragged cloud had drifted down south-east now and the rain fell no more, but the sun was still pale and clouded. Then Thiodolf looked gravely on them, and spake: "What do ye sons of the War-shield? what tale is there to tell? Is the kindred fallen tangled in the grasp of the fallow Hell? Crows the red cock over the homesteads, have we met the foe too late? For meseems your brows are heavy with the shadowing o'er of fate." But Geirbald answered: