They swiftly speed onward, the lake to span,
But under them lurketh the treacherous Ran.

Her silvery roof in a trice she breaks,
And catches the sled in the hole she makes.

The cheeks of the beautiful queen turn pale;
Then comes like a whirlwind the skater in mail.

He buries his skate in the ice, to clasp
The steed's flowing mane in his iron grasp.

With one single effort his arm the swings,
And charger and sled to the firm ice brings.

"That stroke," said Ring, "was a noble one,--
Not Fridthjof, the strong, could have better done."

So they all returned to the house of the king,--
The stranger remaining until the spring.




XIX.

FRIDTHJOF'S TEMPTATION.