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“Nay, think it or thole it I cannot,
That thou, a young fir of the forest
Enwreathed in the gold that thou guardest,
Shouldst be given to a tinkering tinsmith.
Nay, scarce can I smile, O thou glittering
In silk like the goddess of Baldur,
Since thy father handfasted and pledged thee,
So famed as thou art, to a coward.”
“In such words,” answered Steingerd, “an ill will is plain to hear. I
shall tell Thorvald of this ribaldry: no man would sit still under such
insults.”