He took brave Atle's hand.

With gleeful admonition
Old Halvard swung his staff:
"For your battle-meal potation
There's nothing here to quaff;
Upon the board hot-smoking
The silver dishes glow;
A cold meal is provoking,
And thirst annoys me so.'

Appeased, with friendly feeling,
The portals they pass through,
And here from floor to ceiling,
To Fridthjof all was new.
Rough planks well matched together
Lined not the spacious hall,
But 'broidered golden leather
Was stretched along the wall.

The center was not littered
By mortared hearthstone wide;
A marble fireplace glittered,
Built up against the side.
No smoke 'mid rafters flitted,
No roof with soot spread o'er;
Glass panes the windows fitted,
A lock secured the door.

No woollen torches crackling,