sixteenth shield,
With coal-black pinion, a crow;
That's borne by rich Count Raadengaard;
The dark Runes well can he throw. {f:19}

There shines upon the seventeenth shield
A horse, so stately and high,
Is borne by Count Sir Guncelin;
"Slay! slay! bide not," is his cry.

There shine upon the eighteenth shield
A man, and a fierce wild boar,
Are borne by the Count of Lidebierg;
His blows fall heavy and sore.

There shines upon the nineteenth shield
A hound, at the stretch of his speed;
Is borne by Oisten Kiaempe, bold;
He risks his neck without heed.

There shines upon the twentieth shield,
Among branches, a rose, so gay;
Wherever Sir Nordman comes in war,
He bears bright honour away.

There shines on the one-and-twentieth shield
A vase, and of copper 't is made;
That's borne by Mogan Sir Olgerson;
He wins broad lands with his blade.

And now comes forth the next good shield,
With a sun dispelling the mirk;
And that by Asbiorn Milde is borne;
He sets the knights' backs at work. {f:20}

There shines on the three-and-twentieth shield
An arm, in a manacle bound;
And that by Alvor Sir Lange is borne,
To the heroes he hands mead round.

Now comes the four-and-twentieth shield,
And a bright sword there you see;
And that by Humble Sir Jerfing is borne;
Full worthy of that is he.

There shines upon the next good shield
A goss-hawk, striking his game;
That's borne by a knight, the best of all--
Sir Iver Blaa is his name.

Now comes the six-and-twentieth shield,
A jav'lin there you spy;
Is borne by little Mimring Tan;
From no one will he fly.

Such knights and bearings as were there,
And who can them all relate;
It was Sivard, the Snaresvend;
No longer he deign'd to wait.

"If there be one of the Dane king's men,
Who at Dyst {f:21} is willing to ride,
Let him, I pray, without pause or delay,
Meet me by the wild wood's side.

"The man among you, ye Danish court men,
Who at Dyst has won most meeds;
Him I am ready to fight, this day,
For both of our noble steeds."

The heroes cast the die on the board;
The die it roll'd so wide:
"Since, young Sir Humble, it stops by thee,
'Gainst Sivard thou must ride."

Sir Humble struck his hand on the board;
No longer he lists to play:
I tell you, forsooth, that the rosy hue
From his cheek fast faded away.

"Now, hear me, Vidrik Verlandson;
Thou art so free