Still cowering over the fire, apparently as regardless of the presence
of the two beings whose happiness she had just crushed for ever as if
they had never existed, she began to recite, in solemn, measured,
chanting tones, a legend of the darkest and earliest age of Gothic
history, keeping time to herself with the knife that she still held in
her hand. The malignity in her expression, as she pursued her
employment, betrayed the heartless motive that animated it, almost as
palpably as the words of the composition she was repeating: thus she
now spoke:--
'The tempest-god's pinions o'ershadow the sky, The waves leap to welcome
the storm that is nigh, Through the hall of old Odin re-echo the shocks
That the fierce ocean hurls at his rampart of rocks, As, alone on the
crags that soar up from the sands, With his virgin SIONA the young AGNAR
stands; Tears sprinkle their dew on the sad maiden's cheeks, And the
voice of the chieftain sinks low while he speaks:--
"Crippled in the fight for ever, Number'd with the worse than slain;
Weak, deform'd, disabled!--never Can I join the hosts again!--With the
battle that is won AGNAR'S earthly course is run!
"When thy shatter'd frame must yield, If thou seek'st a future field;
When thy arm, that sway'd the strife, Fails to shield thy worthless
life; When thy hands no more afford Full employment to the sword; Then,
preserve--respect thy name; Meet thy death--to live is shame! Such is
Odin's mighty will; Such commands I now fulfil!"'
At this point in the legend, she paused and turned suddenly to observe
its effect on Hermanric.
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