As yet Thiodolf had gotten no great hurt, so that when he heard that Arinbiorn’s soul had passed away he smiled and said: 

“Yea, yea, Arinbiorn might have abided the end, for ere then shall the battle be hard.”

So now the Wolfings and the Bearings met joyously the kindreds of the Nether Mark and the others of the second battle, and they sang the song of victory arrayed in good order hard by the Roman rampart, while bowstrings twanged and arrows whistled, and sling-stones hummed from this side and from that.

And of their song of victory thus much the tale telleth: 

      “Now hearken and hear
      Of the day-dawn of fear,
      And how up rose the sun
      On the battle begun. 
      All night lay a-hiding,
      Our anger abiding,
      Dark down in the wood
      The sharp seekers of blood;
   But ere red grew the heaven we bore them all bare,
   For against us undriven the foemen must fare;
   They sought and they found us, and sorrowed to find,
   For the tree-boles around us the story shall mind,
   How fast from the glooming they fled to the light,
   Yeasaying the dooming of Tyr of the fight.

      “Hearken yet and again
      How the night gan to wane,
      And the twilight stole on
      Till the world was well won! 
      E’en in such wise was wending
      A great host for our ending;
      On our life-days e’en so
      Stole the host of the foe;
   Till the heavens grew lighter, and light grew the world,
   And the storm of the fighter upon them was hurled,
   Then some fled the stroke, and some died and some stood,
   Till the worst of the storm broke right out from the wood,
   And the war-shafts were singing the carol of fear,
   The tale of the bringing the sharp swords anear.

      “Come gather we now,
      For the day doth grow. 
      Come, gather, ye bold,
      Lest the day wax old;
      Lest not till to-morrow
      We slake our sorrow,
      And heap the ground
      With many a mound. 
   Come, war-children, gather, and clear we the land! 
   In the tide of War-father the deed is to hand. 
   Clad in gear that we gilded they shrink from our sword;
   In the House that we builded they sit at the board;
   Come, war-children, gather, come swarm o’er the wall
   For the feast of War-father to sweep out the Hall!”

Now amidst of their singing the sun rose upon the earth, and gleamed in the arms of men, and lit the faces of the singing warriors as they stood turned toward the east.

In this first onset of battle but twenty and three Markmen were slain in all, besides Arinbiorn; for, as aforesaid, they had the foe at a disadvantage.  And this onset is called in the tale the Storm of Dawning.

CHAPTER XXI—­OF THIODOLF’S STORM