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 Mjölnir 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.]