The Frithiof Saga

Thus ran the code of Frithiof, and no laws of Odin were more strictly obeyed. Many a battle did these heroes fight and win, for there was not their like on all the seas; and soon their fame spread far and wide. But naught of this had power to gladden Frithiof’s heart; he would sit, helm in hand, for hours with clouded brow, gazing out over the rolling waters. Only in battle did the shadow vanish, as with flashing eyes and fiercely swelling breast he led his men to victory.

For three years they sailed the seas northward and westward; then turning south, his dragon anchored one day off the coast of Greek-land (Greece). With wonder Frithiof gazed upon that beauteous land, with its noble ruined temples rising amid fragrant groves. The tales his father had been wont to tell of those fair isles still lingered in his memory like some lovely vision—a dream that now was realized. Hither had he once thought to flee with Ingeborg from the haughty Helge, here with her to found an abode of bliss, but the noble maiden had denied his prayers and shrunk from such a breach of duty and of custom. Amid these fair scenes memories of his native land awoke afresh within him, and he longed to see it once again. But most of all he yearned for a sight of Ingeborg and to visit his father’s grave-mound.

“Why do I linger here in strange seas and stain my hands with blood?” he asked himself. “Enough of glory have I won, and I care not for gold. North points the flag on the masthead. To the Northland the home of my youth! Up, ‘Ellida’! no longer we’ll tarry, but follow that token from Heaven!”

Chapter XVI
Frithiof comes to King Ring’s Court

On his high-seat sat King Ring, celebrating the great Yule tide feast that fell on the winter solstice, and beside him Ingeborg, his wife, like chilly Autumn with the youthful Spring. The mead-horn went round, and joyous shouts and laughter filled the hall. Suddenly through the doorway entered an old man, tall of stature and wrapped from head to foot in a great bearskin. In his hand he bore a staff and walked as if bowed with age. None knew him, and he quietly took his place on the bench near the door, reserved for the poor. The courtiers smiled to one another and pointed jeeringly at the shaggy figure, while one playfully approached with intent to make sport of him for the amusement of the others. With flashing eyes the stranger seized the rash youth, whirled him about in the air, and set him again on his feet unharmed; whereat the courtiers’ smiles deserted them, and they fell straightway silent.

“What noise is that down yonder?” cried Ring sternly.

“Come hither, old man, who thus disturbest our kingly peace! Who art thou? What brings thee here? Whence comest thou?”

“Much dost thou ask, O King,” replied the stranger, “yet all will I tell thee save my name,—that concerneth none but me. In Penitence was I reared; Want was my inheritance; my latest bed a Wolf’s lair. Astride my dragon, with its mighty wings, I flew swiftly hither from afar; now my good ship lies frozen in upon thy shores. I came to hear thy words of wisdom, famed through all the land. When thy people just now sought to mock me, I seized a vain fool and swung him round about—but I did him no harm. Forgive me, King!”

“Truly,” the monarch cried,—“thou speakest well, and wisdom’s teachings bid us honor age. Come, sit at the board. But first, I pray thee, doff thy strange disguisement and show thyself in thy true form, for deception is ever wont to be the foe of gladness.”

At this the stranger let fall his hairy covering, and there, in place of an old man, appeared a youth of noble stature, his loft brow shaded with bright flowing locks. A blue mantle hung from his mighty shoulders, and his tunic was held in place by a wide silver belt, on which, with cunning skill, beasts of the forest were embossed. Heavy gold armlets encircled his arm; at his left side hung a sword that gleamed like lightning. Fair as Balder, like to the mighty Thor in strength of limb, he stood before the King and his astonished court. For a moment his keen glance wandered about the hall, then he seated himself calmly at the board. The blood rushed to the cheeks of the Queen till she glowed as crimson as the ice-fields lit by flaring Northern lights.

But now the trumpets sounded the signal for silence. It was the hour of the vow, and the crowned boar was borne into the hall on a silver charger and placed upon the board. Touching the head of the boar, Ring said:

“Hearken, ye warriors, to my vow! I swear to conquer Frithiof, howsoever stout a champion he be; so help me Odin, Thor, and Frey!”

The stranger rose with a frown and dashed his sword upon the board with such a clang that all the warriors sprang from their seats.

“Hear thou me likewise, good Sir King,” he cried: “That Frithiof whom thou namest is my friend and kinsman: and him I swear to guard with life and limb, so help me Norns and my good sword!”

The King smiled. “Thou speakest boldly,” he answered, “but words are free in Northland’s royal halls. Fill for him, Queen, yon horn with draught of welcome. I hope he’ll tarry with us as our guest till Spring returns.”

This horn was a precious heirloom of the house, broken from the forehead of the urus. Its feet were of silver wonderfully wrought, while the golden rings about it were carven with strange runes. With downcast eyes Ingeborg handed it to the guest, but she trembled so that the wine was spilled, and red drops gleamed on her white hand like evening’s purple blushes on a lily.

Unmoved, the hero took the mighty horn, lifted it to his lips and at one draught drained it to the honor of his host. Then at a sign from the King, the scald smote on his harpstrings and chanted many a heart-stirring song and legend. In lofty words he sang of love and friendship, of freedom and the country’s glory, of the high gods and Valhalla’s wonders, till fire shot forth from every eye, and involuntarily each warrior grasped the handle of his sword.

Deeply they drank throughout the night, and many a champion, like a tower of strength in battle, was vanquished by the sweetly foaming mead.

Chapter XVII
The Sledge Excursion

“Ho for a sledge ride over the frozen lake!” cried Ring one day; and the servitors hastened to loose one of the pawing steeds from the royal stables and harness it before a splendid sledge, over the seat of which was thrown a silky sealskin.

“’Tis not safe on the lake,” said the stranger. “The ice is thin and weak in some parts, and should it give way, full cold and deep would be thy bath!”

“Nay, not so easily do monarchs drown,” replied the King; “let him who fears it, go around the shore!”

The stranger said no more, but frowning darkly, hastened to fasten on his steel skates, while the impatient courser pawed the air and whinnied loudly.

“Speed on, my steed,” cried Ring, “and let us see if thou art sprung from Sleipner’s blood!”

Away dashed the sledge with the speed of the whirlwind, the stout-hearted old king exulting in the motion and heeding not the entreaties of his wife; but swift as they flew, the stranger still outstripped them, circling about in wide curves or cutting figures on the ice. Meanwhile, false Ran, the spouse of the Sea-god, has marked what is passing above. She cleaves a broad fissure in the sea’s silvery roof, and into the up-foaming waves plunge horse and sledge. But swift as the wind flies the stranger thither. Fixing his steel shoes firmly in the ice, he seizes the horse by the mane and with a mighty jerk, pulls it and sledge together back on to the ice.

“In sooth,” said the King, “that deed doth merit praise; e’en Frithiof himself could do no better. And now, my Fleet-of-foot, let us back to the palace again.”

Chapter XVIII
Frithiof’s Temptation

Spring is come once more; birds warble in the treetops; freed from their icy bonds, the streams leap gaily downward to the vales below; the roses part their delicate sheaths and blossom red as Frigga’s cheeks. King Ring will now go hunting, and forthwith a joyous stir pervades the court. Bows twang, quivers rattle, fiery coursers paw the ground, the hooded falcon screams for its victim, and scarce can the huntsmen keep in leash the eager hounds. Fair as Frigga, dazzling as the battle-maiden Rota, sits the Queen upon her milk-white steed like a star on a summer cloud. Her hunting dress is of green, embroidered with gold, and blue plumes wave from her velvet cap.

Led by the royal pair, the gay train wends its way into the forest, and soon the sport begins. Loud bay the hounds; up mount the hawks into the clear sky; horns sound; the frightened game seeks lair and covert; and the eager huntsmen scatter in pursuit.

King Ring has fallen behind; old and feeble, he can no longer follow the lengthening chase, while beside him silent and thoughtful, rides his guest. At last they reached a rocky glen shut in by thick-clustering trees and thickets, and here the King dismounted from his courser, saying:

“Full weary am I, stranger; here will I rest me in this pleasant spot.”

“Nay, sleep not on the cold hard ground,” replied the other; “I had better lead thee back to thy own halls.”

“Sweet slumber comes when least expected; ’tis the way of the gods,” said Ring. “Surely thou dost not grudge thy host an hour of rest!”

Without further words, the stranger spread his cloak upon the ground and seated himself on a fallen tree-trunk, while Ring, stretching himself out upon the mantle, laid his head against the other’s knees. His eyes closed and soon he slept, sweetly as an infant cradled in its mother’s arms. As the stranger gazed gloomily down on the face of the King, he heard a rustling in the branches above him to the left, and lifting his eyes he saw a coal-black bird, which began to sing:

Scarce had the sound ceased when from a bough on the right, a snow-white bird began:

Thus sang the two birds, while contending thoughts struggled within the listener. Suddenly he seized his sword by the handle and flung it far from him into the shadow of the forest. Whereupon the black bird, with heavy flapping of its wings, flew back to the dark halls of Night, the abode of perjurers and assassins; while, blithely warbling, upward the white bird took its flight and vanished at last in the blue of heaven. At that moment the King awoke and rising to his feet, said:

“Sweet indeed hath been my slumber. Well they rest whom valor’s sword doth guard. But where is thy war blade, stranger? Methought the Brother of Lightning never left thy side. Say, who hath parted you?”

“Little boots it,” answered the other; “swords are plenty in the Northland. The sword is not always a good companion. Its tongue is sharp and it speaketh few words of peace. In steel there dwells an evil spirit, sprung from Loke’s dark abode, to whom not even sleep is sacred, nor the silver locks of age.”

“Hearken, youth!” began the King. “I slept not. ’Twas but to try thee I did feign to slumber—a fool is he who trusts a man or a blade untried. Thou art Frithiof! I knew thee even when thou didst cross my threshold. But wherefore didst thou creep nameless and in such disguise into my palace? Wherefore, if not to rob me of my wife? Honor comes not nameless to the banquet, Frithiof! Ever open-faced she meets men’s glances, clear as sunlight is her shield. The fame of Frithiof’s deeds has reached us,—a terror both of gods and men; careless alike of cloven shield or burning temple; the mightiest warrior known in all the land. And this bold hero, this fierce viking, creeps, a beggar, to our hall! Nay, cast not down thy eyes before me. I, too, have once been young and felt as thou. Youth, well I know, hath fiery passions. Much have I thought on thee, O Frithiof. I have pitied and have pardoned thee. Hearken now! I am growing old and feeble, and soon for me the grave shall open. Then take unto thyself my kingdom and my wife. Until that time, be thou a son to me and guard my house as thou hast done before. And now, my son, let there be no more feud between us!”

“Not as a thief did I enter thy halls, O King,” replied Frithiof proudly. “Had I come to seize thy Queen, who could have withstood me? ’Twas but to behold once again her who before the altar gave me her betrothal kiss. But ah, what slumbering fires my rashness hath awakened! Too long already have I tarried. Upon my head the gods have poured their wrath. Even the gentle Balder, lover of all mankind, spurns my prayers. ’Twas I who burned his temple. ‘Wolf in the Sanctuary,’ am I called. All joy ceases when my name is spoken. The child clings trembling to its father’s knees. Once more will I seek the broad, free ocean, whither earth and man have banished me. Out, out, my dragon! Too long in idleness thou hast lain. Again to the storm wind shalt thou spread thy pinions, and bathe thy black breast in the dashing spray! All—all on earth is lost to me forever; the tempest’s roar, the clash of arms shall whisper comfort to my soul once more! So will I live, so will I fighting fall; and mounting then to Odin’s throne, the gods, appeased, shall speak my pardon.”

Chapter XIX
Death of King Ring

Pale on his throne sat the aged monarch, for he felt his end approaching. Ingeborg, trembling, stood beside him, and a circle of silent warriors stood about the royal pair. Sorrowfully Frithiof entered to say farewell.

“This day for the last time do ye behold me,” he said; “for the last time my foot doth tread the soil of earth. Henceforth, till the Norns shall send their summons the ocean’s boundless wastes shall be my home. Take back the ring round which such memories cluster, Ingeborg; let it be a parting token from me. And thou, O King, go not with thy Queen by moonlight to the strand, nor when the pale stars shine, for at your feet the waves might chance to toss my bleaching bones.”

“Nay, Frithiof,” replied the King, “such mournful plaints become not men; in maids they may be pardoned. For me the death song soundeth, not for thee. ’Tis I must hence, not thou! Take thou my realm and guard it well. Take Ingeborg as thy wife, and be a father to my infant son. Ever through life hath peace been dearest to me; well have I loved to sit with friends about the board; yet with a strong hand have I guarded throne and honor, and cloven many a shield on sea and land; nor ever hath man seen my cheek turn pale. Victory hath been mine, and glory. One boon only have the gods denied me—to mount to Valhalla from the battle-field. Death by the sword is the death of heroes; to linger on,—the straw death,—never such will Ring live to endure!” And therewith he plunged his sword into his breast. As the life-blood gushed forth he had his horn brought to him, and raising it aloft, with glowing face he cried:

“To thy glory I drain this, my country, thou Northland! Ye gods of Valhalla, all hail, all hail!”

Silence reigned within the hall; none gave way to grief lest the dying man’s last moments should be saddened. Sinking back on his cushions, the King clasped Ingeborg’s hand for the last time—greeted his friend and son with a parting glance, and sighing, his soul ascended to the All-Father. Great was the mourning for him throughout the kingdom; amid universal lamentations the good King’s mound was heaped above him, while scalds with sounding dirges glorified his memory.

Chapter XX
The Election to the Kingdom

“To the Ting! To the Ting!” The message flies o’er hill and vale; the people are summoned to elect their King. Champions try their swords, vassals polish their lord’s helm and buckler till they shine like the sun. Thus with clang of arms the warriors assembled on the open plain. In their midst on the wide Ting-stone stood Frithiof, and at his side King Ring’s son, a fair child with golden hair.

“Too young is Ring’s heir,” was murmured through the multitude; “no chief is he to lead us into battle, or sit in judgment on the Ting-stone.”

But Frithiof placed the child upon his shield and held him high aloft, saying: “Northmen, behold your King, a vigorous offshoot of the fallen oak! Doth he not bear him well upon the shield? Hear now my vow: I swear to guard for him his Kingdom, till with his father’s circlet he shall one day here be crowned.” Then raising his eyes to heaven, he added: “Forsete, son of Balder, be my witness! O thou who judgest justly, strike me dead if e’er I break my word!”

Meanwhile the King’s son sat on Frithiof’s gleaming shield, gazing about him proudly; but at length he began to weary of it, and with one bound sprang lightly to the ground. A shout went up from all the Ting:

“Ha, that was indeed a royal leap! Aye, shield-borne, thee we choose to be our King! And thou, O Frithiof, who shalt guard his crown and kingdom, take Ingeborg, our Queen, to be thy wife!”

At these words Frithiof’s brow darkened. “To choose a King are you come,” he answered; “my bride I woo of my own choice. In anger still doth Balder look upon me. ’Twas he that took my Ingeborg from me, and he alone can give her back to me.”

Chapter XXI
The Reconciliation

No peace was there yet in Frithiof’s heart. As fire had once consumed the temple, so within him still blazed the flames of his remorse that by his act had Balder’s earthly dwelling been destroyed. Betaking himself to his father’s grave-mound he sat all night alone upon the cairn, beseeching Balder to smile upon him once again. And lo! in the darkness a wondrous vision grew before his eyes. In Balder’s Grove he saw a gleaming temple slowly rise; but scarcely had he gazed upon it in amazement, when again ’twas swallowed in the gloom of night.

Roused by fresh hope of winning the offended god’s forgiveness, he hastily returned to Ring’s dominions and summoned architects to plan for the building of a new temple. Just as he had seen it in his vision should the home of Balder actually rise. So filled was he with this one thought that nothing else had power to move him, neither feast, nor chase, nor sounding minstrel lay.

At last the work was finished, and like the far-famed shrine of Upsal, the great temple stood a wonder to all eyes. A brazen portal richly carved led to the sanctuary; two rows of lofty columns supported the arching roof, like a great shield of gold. Facing the doorway stood the high altar, hewn from a single block of Northern marble and polished with rare skill; round about it were graven runes of solemn import. Above, in a spacious niche, was Balder’s august image, wrought all of purest silver. On a rocky hillside rose the building, its reflection mirrored in the sea below, while round about on three sides stretched a smiling valley, known as Balder’s Dale. Leafy groves adorned the flowery meadows. No sound but happy bird songs broke the silence; all nature breathed of peace.

With deep emotion Frithiof trod those holy precincts. Twelve rosy-cheeked maidens, priestesses of the temple, robed all in white, advanced to the high altar and chanted a holy song in praise of Balder. They sang how beloved was the gentle god by every creature; and when he fell by evil Loke’s malice, how heaven itself with earth and ocean wept. And as leaning on his sword the hero listened, the dark shadow, that so long had lain upon his spirit, lifted. Tender memories of his childhood woke within him, while calm and serene as the moon in the skies of Summer, Balder the Good looked down upon him and filled his soul with peace. Then with slow steps approached the high-priest of the temple, not young and fair like the god at whose shrine he worshipped, but tall and majestic, his noble features stamped with heavenly mildness and graced with flowing beard and locks of silver. With unwonted reverence Frithiof bent his haughty head before the seer, who thus began:

“Welcome, son Frithiof, to this holy temple. Long have I looked for thee to come, for force, though restless over land and sea it wanders, turns ever, wearied, home again at last. Oft did the mighty Thor wend thus to Jötunheim, the giants’ kingdom; yet despite his godlike belt and magic gauntlets, the giant King still sits upon his throne. Evil, itself a force, yields not to evil. Virtue without strength is but child’s play, the glancing sunbeam on the shield, a wavering shadow on the earth’s broad breast. Yet neither may strength without virtue long survive. It consumes itself, like rusting sword in some dark grave-mound—a debauch from which he who yieldeth to it wakens filled with shame.

“Behold the mighty earth! It is the body of Ymir, the world-giant from whom all strength proceeds—its rushing streams his blue veins; its iron and brass his sinews; yet all is barren, bare, and empty till heaven’s bright sun-rays stream upon it from afar. Then springs the grass; fair blossoms deck the verdant meadows, and fresh leaves, the trees; the swelling buds burst forth; all nature breathes new life from the abundant earth. Thus is it with man’s strength: it yields naught but blessing when transfigured by the heavenly rays of virtue.

“What the sun is to the earth, was Balder to Valhalla. His pure soul was the gem that fastened the wreath divine. When, slain by evil Loke, he descended to pale Hel’s realm, Odin’s wisdom straight began to languish, and the strength of mighty Thor to dwindle; the prisoned forces of evil, once mastered by the gods, stirred in their abysses; the dragon Nidhögg gnawed at the roots of the Tree of Life, and its leafy crown fast withered. Again the war broke out ’twixt good and evil—the strife that through all creation still endures.

“This is but the emblem of what passes in every human breast. Hast thou forgotten, my son, those days when Balder dwelt within thy spirit? Pure then was every thought and feeling, thy whole life glad as a woodland songster’s dream. In every child does Balder reappear; in each that is born doth Hel restore her victim.

“But in each soul is also found the blind god Höder. Evil is ever born blind, like the bear-cub; in darkness it enwraps itself, while good goes clad in shining robes of light. Loke still creepeth busily about to guide the hand of murder; with Balder dies the strength of heart and spirit, and anew the struggle in man’s breast begins. Virtue sits hopeless mid the shadows, as the fair god in the darkness of the underworld.

“So hath it been with thee, Frithiof. Passion and thirst for vengeance rose within thee, and Balder’s temple sank to earth in ashes. Now thou seekest atonement; but knowest thou its meaning rightly? Nay, boldly meet my gaze and turn not pale, O youth! But one atoner is there on our earth—his name is Death. All time itself is but a troubled stream from vast eternity; atonement came from the All-Father’s throne to restore us thither purified. The high gods, too, have sinned. Their day of battle, the Twilight of the Gods, is their atonement, and from their fall a higher life shall rise. Ah, bloody is the day that sees their strife with the powers of evil! The golden-combed cock that sits on Odin’s golden palace doth shrilly call to arms. Bursting his chains, up springs the giant wolf from the abyss; the earth-enveloping serpent writhes in fury; boiling and foaming, the sea o’erflows the land; the whole earth shakes; mountains crash together; the Tree of Life groans and trembles; in terror flee the shades that hover about the path of the dead. On the corpse-ship, made from the nails of the unburied dead, Loke, the wolf Fenris, and the giant Hrymer ride to join the battle. On come the flame giants, their swords gleaming like the red glow of the forge. Over the rainbow bridge they gallop—with a frightful crash it breaks beneath their horses’ tread; the heavens are rent asunder; thunder peals sound from pole to pole; the shouts of terrified mortals mingle with the groans of the dwarfs, who, pale and trembling, cower in their rocky caverns.

“But already have the gods and heroes donned their shining armor, and, led by Odin, crowned with his golden circlet and shaking aloft his gleaming spear, over Vigrid’s boundless plain they move in mighty train. There arrayed against each other stand the hosts, and the strife begins. Spears hiss, swords clash, the battle-cries of gods and giants fill the air; the furious bellowing of the serpent and the howling of Fenris shake the dome of heaven. One by one the gods are slain; but not unavenged do they perish, for the powers of evil also fall to rise no more, while from the flames of the world they rise to higher life. Aye, though the stars fall from the heavens and the earth is buried deep beneath the waves, yet newly born, the abode of man once more arises from the waters; a new sun shines on smiling mead and golden harvest. Then shall those golden runic tablets, lost in Time’s far dawning and graven with the wisdom of the gods, again be found amid the springing grass.

“Struggle and death are but the fiery proof of virtue; atonement another birth to higher life. The best, the happiest part of our existence, lies beyond the grave-mound; low and deep-stained with guilt and error is all we find ’neath heaven’s starlit dome.

“This life, too, hath its atonement—dim type of that still higher yet to come. Earth is but Heaven’s shadow; human life the outer court of Balder’s heavenly temple. Decked with purple is the proud steed led to sacrifice—a symbol, rightly read, that blood is the red dawn of every day of grace. Yet by the sacrifice of no other may thine own guilt be redeemed. The wrongs that man commits he must himself atone for. The sacrifice All-Father demands from thee, more sweet to him than blood and reek of victim, is thy fierce hate and burning vengeance offered on the altar of thy heart. If thou slay not these, then little will this proud arched temple serve thee. Not with piled-up stones mayst thou atone to Balder. First with thyself and with thy foe be reconciled; then, Frithiof, shalt thou have the bright god’s pardon.

“Hear now, what wondrous news hath reached us from the South: there, so ’tis said, was a new Balder, born of a pure Virgin, sent by the great All-Father to lead man to atonement. Peace was his war-cry; his bright sword, Love; crowning his helm, the dove of Innocence. Pure was his life and pure were his teachings; dying, he forgave. Palms wave above his far-off grave, but still his teachings spread from vale to vale, melting hard hearts, joining hand to hand, upraising such a realm of Peace as never yet was seen upon the earth. But little know I of this creed, alas! yet oft in better moments dimly I gaze upon its streaming light, and loud my heart proclaims to me the time will come when it shall also spread through all the North. Levelled then will be our grave-mounds; lost in the stream of time our names, while other men shall flourish, other chieftains reign. Ye happier race, who then shall drink from the New Light’s shining goblet, I greet ye in the spirit. Hail! all hail! Despise us not whose eager gaze hath ceaselessly sought the radiant light of Heaven! Scorn not those to whom the divine ray was still wrapped in veiling shadows! The All-Father hath many envoys—He Himself is One!

“Frithiof, thou hatest Bele’s sons; but wherefore? Because, proud of their descent from Seming, Odin’s royal offspring, they did refuse their sister’s hand to thee. But ‘birth is chance,’ thou sayst, ‘not merit.’ Know, my son, man ever boasts of fortune, not of merit. Thou art proud of thy strength and of thy glorious deeds; but didst thou give thyself this force? Was it not Thor who strung thy sinewy arm firm as the oak limb? Is it not God-sprung courage that throbs so joyously within thy breast? Beside thy cradle the Norns sang hero-songs to thee. Thus are thy noblest gifts no merit, but thy fortune,—of no more worth than that of which the princes boast. Condemn not, judge not, others’ pride,—then none will judge thine own. King Helge is no more—”

“What! Helge dead!” cried Frithiof, starting. “Where and how came he to his death?”

“While thou,” continued the high priest, “wert building here this temple, he, as thou knowest, did undertake a foray ’gainst the Finns. Within their borders, on a barren mountain-peak there stood an ancient temple of the heathen Jumala. It was closed and abandoned, and none for many years had ever crossed its threshold. Above the portal, tottering to its fall as it appeared, was placed an idol of the god, and an old tradition handed down from sire to sire said, whoever first should enter in the temple should Jumala behold. No sooner did Helge hear this than, blind with rage, he scaled the barren steep, bent on destroying the hated deity’s abode. He found the key still in the door, thick covered o’er with rust. Grasping the moss-grown posts he shook them fiercely, and thereupon, with tremendous crash, down plunged the image of the heathen god; and thus did Helge view the dreaded Jumala.

“Now Halfdan rules alone. Give him thy hand, brave Frithiof. Sacrifice thy hatred in this holy shrine. Thus saith Balder, and I his high priest this demand of thee. Refuse, and vain will be thy efforts to avert his godlike wrath.”

Here Halfdan entered through the doorway and with doubtful glance lingered on the threshold of the temple. But Frithiof unbuckled Angurvadel from his side and placed it with his shield against the altar. Unarmed he approached his enemy and said kindly:

“In this strife he is noblest who first doth offer his hand in pledge of peace.”

Flushing deeply, Halfdan doffed his iron gauntlet, and with a firm hand-clasp the two heroes sealed their reconciliation. Now the high priest removed the curse that had rested on Frithiof since the burning of the temple, and as he joyfully raised his head, no longer an outlaw, lo! Ingeborg entered, radiant in her bridal garments and robed in royal ermine. With tears in her beautiful eyes, she sank trembling in her brother’s arms, but Halfdan tenderly transferred his burden to Frithiof’s faithful breast; and kneeling before the altar of the pardoning Balder, with joined hands the long-parted lovers sealed their nuptial vows.

LIFE STORIES FOR YOUNG PEOPLE

BIOGRAPHICAL ROMANCES
TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN BY
GEORGE P. UPTON

A new, interesting, and very useful series that will be found especially suitable for school libraries and for supplementary reading

The books in this series are translated from the German, because in that country a specialty is made of really desirable reading for the young. Sixteen titles are now ready and more will follow.

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For parents who feel disposed to give their children books that provide a mild element of historical information, as well as first-class entertainment, the little books will prove a veritable find.

The “life-stories” retain the story form throughout, and embody in each chapter a stirring event in the life of the hero or the action of the time. The dramatis personæ are actual characters, and the facts in the main are historically correct. They are therefore both entertaining and instructive, and present biography in its most attractive form for the young.

A FULL LIST OF THE TITLES IS GIVEN ON THE NEXT PAGE

The work of translation has been done by Mr. George P. Upton, whose “Memories” and Lives of Beethoven, Haydn, and Liszt, from the German of Max Müller and Dr. Nohl, have been so successful.

Each is a small square 16mo in uniform binding, with from one to four illustrations. Each 60 cents net.

LIFE STORIES FOR YOUNG PEOPLE

FULL LIST OF TITLES

Barbarossa

Herman & Thusnelda

William of Orange

Beethoven

Mozart

Joseph Haydn

Johann Sebastian Bach

Maria Theresa

Gudrun

Swiss Heroes

The Nibelungs

Frithiof Saga

The Maid of Orleans

William Tell

Frederick the Great

The Little Dauphin

“These narratives have been well calculated for youthful minds past infancy, and Mr. Upton’s version is easy and idiomatic.”—The Nation.

“He is a delightful writer, clearness, strength, and sincerity marking everything to which he puts his hand. He has translated these little histories from the German in a way that the reader knows has conserved all the strength of the original.”—Chicago Evening Post.

“They are written in simple, graphic style, handsomely illustrated, and will be read with delight by the young people for whose benefit they have been prepared.”—Chicago Tribune.

“The work of translation seems to have been well done, and these little biographies are very well fitted for the use of young people.... The volumes are compact and neat, and are illustrated sufficiently but not too elaborately.”—Springfield Republican.

“These books are most entertaining and vastly more wholesome than the story books with which the appetites of young readers are for the most part satisfied.”—Indianapolis Journal.

OF ALL BOOKSELLERS OR OF THE PUBLISHERS
A. C. McCLURG & CO., CHICAGO

Transcriber’s Notes

• Copyright notice provided as in the original—this e-text is public domain in the country of publication.
• In the text versions, delimited italics text in _underscores_ (the HTML version reproduces the font form of the printed book.)
• Silently corrected palpable typos; left non-standard spellings and dialect unchanged.