he battle," echoed Sintram in a sudden transport
of joy.

And they all dispersed in calm cheerfulness; Sintram betaking himself
again to the wood, while the others retired to rest.

CHAPTER 9

It was a wild dreary tract of country that, which bore the name of
Niflung's Heath. According to tradition, the young Niflung, son
of Hogni, the last of his race, had there ended darkly a sad and
unsuccessful life. Many ancient grave-stones were still standing round
about; and in the few oak-trees scattered here and there over the plain,
huge eagles had built their nests. The beating of their heavy wings as
they fought together, and their wild screams, were heard far off in
more thickly-peopled regions; and at the sound children would tremble
in their cradles, and old men quake with fear as they slumbered over the
blazing hearth.

As the seventh night, the last before the day of combat, was just
beginning, two large armies were seen descending from the hills in
opposite directions; that which came from the west was commanded by Eric
the Aged, that from the east by Biorn of the Fiery Eyes. They appeared
thus early in compliance with the custom which required that adversaries
should always present themselves at the appointed field of battle before
the time named, in order to prove that they rather sought than dreaded
the fight. Folko forthwith pitched on the most convenient spot the tent
of blue samite fringed with gold, which he carried with him to shelter
his gentle lady; whilst Sintram, in the character of herald, rode
over to Jarl Eric to announce to him that the beauteous Gabrielle of
Montfaucon was present in the army of the knight Biorn, and would the
next morning be present as a judge of the combat.

Jarl Eric bowed low on receiving this pleasing message; and ordered his
bards to strike up a lay, the words of which ran as follows:--

"Warriors bold of Eric's band,
Gird your glittering armour on,
Stand beneath to-morrow's sun,
In your might.

Fairest dame that ever gladden'd
Our wild shores with beauty's vision,
May thy bright eyes o'er our combat,
Judge the right!

Tidings of yon noble stranger
Long ago have reach'd our ears,
Wafted upon southern breezes,
O'er the wa