.

High in a silver chair sat the jarl, clad in a coat of golden
mail, over which was flung a rich mantle bordered with ermine,
but when Frithiof entered he strode from his seat with cordial hand
outstretched. "Full many a horn have I emptied with my old friend
Thorsten," said he, "and his brave son is equally welcome at my board."

Nothing loth, Frithiof seated himself beside his host, and after he
had eaten and drunk he recounted his adventures upon land and sea.

At last, however, Frithiof made known his errand, whereupon Angantyr
said that he owed no tribute to Helge, and would pay him none; but
that he would give the required sum as a free gift to his old friend's
son, leaving him at liberty to dispose of it as he pleased. Meantime,
since the season was unpropitious for the return journey, and storms
continually swept the sea, the king invited Frithiof to tarry with
him over the winter; and it was only when the gentle spring breezes
were blowing once more that he at last allowed him to depart.

Frithiof's Home-coming

Taking leave of his kind host, Frithiof set sail, and wafted by
favourable winds, the hero, after six days, came in sight of Framnaes,
and found that his home had been reduced to a shapeless heap of ashes
by Helge's orders. Sadly Frithiof strode over the ravaged site of his
childhood's home, and as he viewed the desolate scene his heart burned
within him. The ruins were not entirely deserted, however, and suddenly
Frithiof felt the cold nozzle of his hound thrust into his hand. A
few moments later his favourite steed bounded to his master's side,
and the faithful creatures were well-nigh frantic with delight. Then
came Hilding to greet him with the information that Ingeborg was
now the wife of Sigurd Ring. When Frithiof heard this he flew into a
Berserker rage, and bade his men scuttle the vessels in the harbour,
while he strode to the temple in search of Helge.

The king stood crowned amid a circle of priests, some of whom
brandished flaming pine-knots, while all grasped a sacrificial flint
knife. Suddenly there was a clatter of arms and in burst Frithiof, his
brow dark as autumn storms. Helge's face went pale as he confronted the
angry hero, for he knew what his coming presaged. "Take thy tribute,
King," said Frithiof, and with the words, he took the purse from his
girdle and flung it in Helge's face with such force that blood gushed
from his mouth and he fell swooning at Balder's feet.