The twelve in expectation
Stood quaking on the sand;
Renowned through every nation
That struggle on the strand.

But Fridthjof was the stronger,
He felled his foe at last,
And said with fiery anger,
His knee on Atle's breast:
"Had I my good sword ready,
Thou berserk blackbeard, now
Thy miserable body
I'd straightway plunge it through."

"Go bring it! Who'll prevent thee?"
Is generous Atle's cry,
"And if it will content thee,
As now I'll quiet lie.
Why should it make me sorrow?
For all must Valhal see;
I go to-day--to-morrow
Perhaps thy turn will be."

Then Fridthjof quick returning,
Desired to end the fray;
Raised Angervadil burning,--
But Atle quiet lay.
The falling blade ne'er harmed him,
For Fridthjof struck the sand;
Such courage had disarmed him,