"O kindreds of the people! the soul that dwelt herein, This goodly way-worn body, was keen for you to win Good days and long endurance. Who knoweth of his deed What things for you it hath fashioned from the flame of the fire of need? But of this at least well wot we, that forth from your hearts it came And back to your hearts returneth for the seed of thriving and fame. In the ground wherein ye lay it, the body of this man, No deed of his abideth, no glory that he wan, But evermore the Markmen shall bear his deeds o'er earth, With the joy of the deeds that are coming, the garland of his worth." He was silent a little as he stood looking down on Otter's face with grievous sorrow, for all that his words were stout. For indeed, as he had said, Otter had been his battle-fellow and his hall-fellow, though he was much younger than Asmund; and they had been standing foot to foot in that battle wherein old Asmund's sons were slain by his side. After a while he turned slowly from looking at Otter to gaze upon Thiodolf, and his body trembled as he looked, and he opened his mouth to speak; but no word came from it; and he sat down upon the edge of the bier, and the tears began to gush out of his old eyes, and he wept aloud. Then they that saw him wondered; for all knew the stoutness of his heart, and how he had borne more burdens than that of eld, and had not cowered down under them. But at last he arose again, and stood firmly on his feet, and faced the folk-mote, and in a voice more like the voice of a man in his prime than of an old man, he sang: "Wild the storm is abroad Of the edge of the sword! Far on runneth the path Of the war-stride of wrath! The Gods hearken and hear The long rumour of fear From the meadows beneath Running fierce o'er the heath, Till it beats round their dwelling-place builded aloof And at last all up-swelling breaks wild o'er their roof, And quencheth their laughter and crieth on all, As it rolleth round rafter and beam of the Hall, Like the speech of the thunder-cloud tangled on high, When the mountain-halls sunder as dread goeth by. "So they throw the door wide Of the Hall where they bide, And to murmuring song Turns that voice of the wrong, And the Gods wait a-gaze For that Wearer of Ways: For they know he hath gone A long journey alone. Now his feet are they hearkening, and now is he come, With his battle-wounds darkening the door of his home, Unbyrnied, unshielded, and lonely he stands, And the sword that he wielded is gone from his hands-- Hands outstretched and bearing no spoil of the fight, As speechless, unfearing, he stands in their sight.