now laid down sword and helm, took the horn that they bare to him, and drank it off. Then sang he: ‘Mailed monarch, god of battle, Maketh the tinkling circlet Hang, his own arm forsaking, On hawk-trod wrist of mine. I bear on arm brand-wielding Bracelet of red gold gladly. War-falcon’s feeder meetly Findeth such meed of praise.’ “Thereafter Egil drank his share, and talked with others. Presently the king caused to be borne in two chests; two men bare each. Both were full of silver. The king said: ‘These chests, Egil, thou shalt have, and, if thou comest to Iceland, shalt carry this money to thy father; as payment for a son I send it to him: but some of the money thou shalt divide among such kinsmen of thyself and Thorolf as thou thinkest most honourable. But thou shalt take here payment for a brother with me, land or chattels, which thou wilt. And if thou wilt abide with me long, then will I give thee honour and dignity such as thyself mayst name.’ “Egil took the money, and thanked the king for his gifts and friendly words. Thenceforward Egil began to be cheerful; and then he sang: ‘In sorrow sadly drooping Sank my brows close-knitted; Then found I one who furrows Of forehead could smooth. Fierce-frowning cliffs that shaded My face a king hath lifted With gleam of golden armlet: Gloom leaveth my eyes.’” Like many of his kind in Iceland and Norway, this fierce man was a poet. Once he saved his life by a poem, and poems he had made as gifts. It was when the old Viking’s life was drawing to its close at his home in Iceland that he composed his most moving lay. His beautiful beloved son was drowned. After the burial Egil rode home, went to his bed-closet, lay down and shut himself in, none daring to speak to him. There he lay, silent, for a day and night. At last his daughter knocks and speaks; he opens. She enters and beguiles him with her devotion. After a while the old man takes food. And at last she prevails on him to make a poem on his son’s death, and assuage his grief. So the song begins, and at length rises clear and strong--perhaps the most heart-breaking of all old Norse poems.[200]