ASGAUT. It is a mouldy time we live in now;
Our faith and customs from the olden days
Are everywhere upon the downward path.
Lucky it is that I am growing old;
My eyes shall never see the North decay.
But you, King Gandalf, you are young and strong;
And wheresoe’er you roam in distant lands,
Remember that it is a royal task
To guard the people and defend the gods!
[He follows the rest.]
GANDALF. [After a pause.] Hm, he has no great confidence
in me.
’Tis well he went! Whenever he is near,
It is as if a burden weighed me down.
The grim old viking with his rugged face,—
He looks like Asathor, who with his belt
Of strength and Mjolnir stood within the grove,
Carved out in marble, near my father’s home.
My father’s home! Who knows, alas! how
things
Around the ancient landmarks now may look!—
Mountains and fields are doubtless still the same;
The people—? Have they still the same
old heart?
No, there is fallen mildew o’er the age,
And it is that which saps the Northern life
And eats away like poison what is best.
Well, I will homeward,—save what still
is left
To save before it falls to utter ruin.
GANDALF. [After a pause during which he looks around.]
How lovely in these Southern groves it is;
My pine groves can not boast such sweet perfume.
[He perceives the mound.]
GANDALF. What now? A warrior’s grave?
No doubt it hides
A countryman from those more stirring days.
A warrior’s barrow in the South!—’Tis
only just;
It was the South gave us our mortal wound.
How lovely it is here! It brings to mind
One winter night when as a lad I sat
Upon my father’s knee before the hearth,
The while he told me stories of the gods,
Of Odin, Balder, and the mighty Thor;
And when I mentioned Freya’s grove to him,
He pictured it exactly like this grove,—
But when I asked him something more of Freya,
What she herself was like, the old man laughed
And answered as he placed me on my feet,
“A woman will in due time tell you that!”
GANDALF. [Listening.]
Hush! Footsteps in the forest! Quiet,
Gandalf,-
They bring the first fruits of your blood-revenge!
[He steps aside so that he is half concealed among
the bushes to the right.]
* * *
* *
[GANDALF. BLANKA with oak leaves in her hair
and a basket of flowers enters from the left.]
BLANKA. [Seated at the left busily weaving a flower
wreath.]
Fountains may murmur in the sunny vales,
Resplendent billows roll beneath the shore;
Nor fountain’s murmur, nor the billow’s
song
Has half the magic of those flowers there,
That stand in clusters round the barrow’s edge
And nod at one another lovingly;
They draw me hither during night and day,—
And it is here I long to come and dream.
The wreath is done. The hero’s monument,
So hard and cold, shall under it be hid.
Yes, it is beautiful!
