Thou shalt beget a son Who afterwards will _Tyrfing_ carry And trust to his own strength; This one will the people Heidrek call, He will be the mightiest born Under the tent of the sun. _Hervör._ I thus spellbind The dead champions That you shall All lie Dead with the ghosts, Rotting in the mound, Unless thou yieldest me, Angantyr, The slayer of Hjalmar,[205] The one to armours dangerous, Out of the mound.... _Angantyr._ Young maiden, I say, Thou art not like man As thou art strolling about Among mounds in the night With inlaid spear And the Goth’s metal, With helmet and mail-coat Before the hall-door. _Hervör._ I thought hitherto I was A human being Ere I called At your halls; Hand me from the mound The hater of mail-coats,[206] It will not do for thee To hide the Dvergar’s smithying. _Angantyr._ The slayer of Hjalmar Lies under my shoulders; All around it is Wrapped in fire; No maiden I know Above the mould That dares this sword Take in her hand. _Hervör._ I will hold And take in my hands The sharp _mœkir_ If I may have it; I do not fear The burning fire; At once the flame lessens When I look at it. _Angantyr._ Foolish art thou, Hervör, Though courage owning, As thou with open eyes Into the fire rushest; I will rather yield thee The sword from the mound, Young maiden! I cannot refuse it to thee. Then the sword was flung out into the hands of Hervör. _Hervör._ Thou didst well, Kinsman of vikings, When thou gavest me The sword from the mound; I think, king! I have a better gift Than if I got The whole of Norway.