Heroes head their warlike forces,
Mailed fists 'gainst shields are clashing,
Over Herad's water-courses
Thunder thousand hoofs of horses,
Over fords and bridges dashing.
Long afar moans Likabong.

Death foretells the cock's dawn-greeting:
Many a fey man's fair limbs mangles
Soon the sword and spear in meeting.
Hot the Northland blood is beating!
Low and dull weeps Likabong.
The shiv'ring Southron sea-cod angles.

_Helga_.--Excellent! That's aimed at Hjalti, the son of the bishop,--the
cod-biter!

_Haf_.--Peace,--how many a foe will crave her!
In Woden's spoor the sward is bloody--
Many a head the swords dissever;
Be our host victorious ever!
Silent lastly Likabong--
Women weep for men once ruddy.

_Botolf_.--Little your skald's song contributes to the honor of the
Church as it seems to me, Lady Helga.

_Helga_ (_lifts the drinking-horn to her lips; the bishop responds in
silence_).--To your health, sir bishop! When at Oddi I listened to the