No more on the oak-top
The squirrel doth play;
Deceived has a rustle
The hunter so gay;
No sound as he listens
His hearing assails,
Save the pattering of leaves
That are moved by the gales.

There comes he--where? Oh, what a foolish stripling
Am I, who here about four days have wandered
In quest of a mere phantom! Surely, Nanna,
Thou dost deceive me--dost but prove thy lover;
And think'st thou, virtuous one, that if a godhead
Came down in light effulgent, and before thee
Knelt and laid heaven at thy feet--Ha! think'st
Thou that fear, base doubt of Nanna's faith and
Honour, would sully Hother's breast? I know thou
Lovest me--thou hast avowed it: what shall then
This wooer avail--this wooer who must not be
Anger'd? Why the deception?

LOKE. Hail, thou son of Hothbrod!

HOTHER (astonished). Ha! scarcely do I know myself!
By Odin,
I look more like a rugged elf than Hother.
And who art thou, that knowest me? who art thou?

LOKE. My name is Vanfred! When thy mother bore thee