to steal away his other longings,--where is she?--show her to me!

Burial-wife. My little Hans, my son, why stormest thou so?

Hans. Let me curse.

Burial-wife. Hush thee, and lie down here beside me on the straw, and listen what I tell thee.

Hans. On the grave-straw? [Lies down with a grimace.]

Burial-wife. There landed two men yonder on a golden spring day, and wandered lost like wild things through the thicket. Who were they?

Hans. I and my master were the two. The villainy of his step-brother had rent from him his throne and kingdom. He was too young, he was too weak,--there lay the blame.

Burial-wife. Yet he was blustering and drew his sword and demanded with storm and threat that I should grant a wish for him. Still thou knowest him, my dear son?

Hans. Do I know him!

Burial-wife. "Thou desirest the fairest of women for thy bride?" I said. "She is not here; but if thou dost not shrink before the danger, I can show thee the way, my son."

Hans. The way to death!

Burial-wife. "There lies an isle in the northern seas, where day and night are merged in dawn; never more shall he rejoice at sight of home who loses his path there in a storm. There lies thy path. And there, where the holy word is never taught, within a crystal house there lives a wild heron, worshiped as a god. From that heron thou must pluck three feathers out and bring them hither."

Hans. And if he brings them?

Burial-wife. Then I will make him conscious of miraculous power, through which he shall find and bind her to himself who awaits him in night and need; for by this deed he grows a man, and worth the prize.

Hans. And then? When he has got her, and sighs and coos and lies in her bosom half a hundred years, when he turns himself a very woman, I shall be the last to wonder at it. Look! [he picks up a piece of amber] I shovelled this shining glittering bauble out of the dune-sand. I have heaped up whole bushels of it in my greedy zeal. Now, as I toss from me this sticky mass of resin, that borrows the name and place of a stone, so with the act I hurl away in mocking laughter these many-colored lies of womankind. [He tosses the lump to the ground.] Now go and brew my evening draught. I will to the sea to seek my master. [He goes out to the right. The Burial-wife looks after him grinning and goes into the tower.]

Ottar [sticking his head through the bushes]. Holloa, Gylf!

Gylf [coming out]. What is it? [The others also appear.]

Ottar. Here is the tower, here lie the graves in a sandy spot; run below to the Duke and tell him; not a man to be seen, not even a worm, naught but a burying-ground, rooted up and worried as though we had been haunting it ourselves. [Gylf goes out.]

Sköll. Nay, for we would have saved some of our loved dead for the raven, we would not have been so stingy as to bury them straightway. [They all laugh.]

The First [pointing out to sea].--Ho--there!

Ottar. What's the matter?

The First. Does not the boat pass there that yesterday crossed our path on the high seas, whose steersman threatened fight with our dragon? How comes the bold rascal here?

The Second [who has raised up the lump of amber]. I tell you, comrades, let the fellow go, and look what I have found.

Ottar. Death and the devil! Then we are in Amberland.

The Third [staring]. That is amber?

Ottar. Give it to me!

The Second. I found it--it is mine!

Ottar. Thou gorging maw!

The Second. Thieves! Flayers!

Ottar. Dog! I'll strike thee dead!

Sköll. Be quiet, fools, there is plenty more! Go look in the tower, and you may curse me for a knave if you find the mouse-hole empty.

The First. Come.

The Two Others. Yes, come! [The three go into the tower.]

Sköll. Thou dost not go along?

Ottar. Thou hadst gladly got us out of the way to dig all by thyself? O, we all know thee, thou filthy fool!

Sköll [slapping him on the back]. More pretty words, my friend? Go on! When we are our own men on shore again, I will see what I can do;--but till that time I spare my skin.

[The three come reeling backwards out of the tower, followed by the Burial-wife with raised fist.]

Sköll. What is this?

Ottar. What do you call this? Seize her!

The First. Seize her! Easy to say! Dost thou court the palsy?

The Second. Or fits, at least!

Ottar. Cowards! [He advances upon her. The others, except Sköll, follow him yelling.]

Hans [snatches his sword, that hangs on a tree, and throws the assailants into confusion with a blow or two]. Ho, there! Let her alone, or--

Sköll. Look! Hans Lorbass!

The Others. Who? Our Hans?

Ottar [rubbing his shoulder]. How comest thou here? Thou still hast thy old strength, I find!

Sköll. Tell us, old Hans, what brings thee here? Is she thy latest love?

All [burst out laughing]. Hans, Hans! Poor old Hans!

Hans. Bandits! Just come on once! [To the Burial-wife.] How is it? I hope they have not hurt thee.

Burial-wife. None can harm me, none molest me, who has not first wronged himself and all his hopes.

Ottar [sings]. Ho, Hans is playing with his love!

Hans. Have a care!

[The Burial-wife goes slowly into the tower.]

Hans. It is now scarce three years since we bore within the hall our master in his ash-hewn coffin. He raised his hand already cold, and pointed with his pallid, bony finger--not toward the bastard Danish conqueror, but towards his own true son, Prince Witte; and him he left his country's lord. The land was poor, the people rude, yet it had preserved its pride and loyalty un stained through a thousand murderous brawls. Three years ago as everybody knows, you would have murdered our young lord at summons of the Bastard and his fair promises; and now--what are you? Thieves, sand-fleas, loafers, riff-raff,