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Sigmund and Sinfiotli left King Siggeir's land and came back to the land where was the Hall of the Branstock. Sigmund became a great King and Sinfiotli was the Captain of his host. And the story of Sigmund and Sinfiotli goes on to tell how Sigmund wed a woman whose name was Borghild, and how Sinfiotli loved a woman who was loved by Borghild's brother.
Borghild And thine do flash like a Viking's sword; O heigh ho! Syvert So lightly trippeth thy foot along, Borghild The air is teeming with joyful song; Both An' a heigh ho! Syvert Then fairest maid, while the woods are green, O heigh ho! Borghild And thrushes sing the fresh leaves between; O heigh ho!
Syvert pulled the powder-horn from his pocket, laughed a wild laugh, and poured the whole contents of the horn into the mouth of the cannon. "Now may the devil care for his own," roared he, and sprang up upon the row-bench. Then there came a low murmuring strain as of wavelets that ripple against a sandy shore. Borghild lifted her eyes, and they met those of the fiddler.
It was as if something was dead within him as if a string had snapped in his breast, and left it benumbed and voiceless. Presently he looked up and saw Borghild standing before him; she held her arms akimbo, her eyes shone with a strange light, and her features wore an air of recklessness mingled with pity. "Ah, Borghild, is it you?" said he, in a hoarse voice. "What do you want with me?
Nevertheless, she was all the time conscious of one strong desire, from which her conscience shrank as from a crime; and she wrestled ineffectually with her weakness until her weakness prevailed. "I am glad you came," she faltered. "I knew you would come. There was something I wished to say to you." "And what was it, Borghild?" "I wanted to ask you to forgive me " "Forgive you "
A loud wail rose from the bridal fleet, and before the day was at an end it filled the valley; but the wail did not recall Truls, the Nameless, or Borghild his bride. What life denied them, would to God that death may yield them! IT was right up under the steel mountain wall where the farm of Kvaerk lay.
He sang her one night as she lay in his arms the terrible Song of Helgi and Sigrun. Certainly Death and Love embrace in that. Helgi was a Wolfing, the son of Sigmund and Borghild. He was forecast a hero by the Norns, and at fifteen slew Hunding, who had slain his father. The sons of Hunding gathered themselves Alf and Eywolf, Hiorward and Haward and the hosts met in the plain under Lowfell.
Still there could be no doubt that it was Borghild one hour ago so merry, reckless, and defiant, now cowering at his feet and weeping like a broken-hearted child. "Borghild," he said, at last, putting his arm gently about her waist, "you and I, I think, played together when we were children." "So we did, Truls," answered she, struggling with her tears.
So Sigmund became a mighty King and far-famed, wise and high-minded: he had to wife one named Borghild, and two sons they had between them, one named Helgi and the other Hamund; and when Helgi was born, Norns came to him, and spake over him, and said that he should be in time to come the most renowned of all kings.
That same night some one was heard playing wildly up in the birch copse above the Skogli mansion; now it sounded like a wail of distress, then like a fierce, defiant laugh, and now again the music seemed to hush itself into a heart-broken, sorrowful moan, and the people crossed themselves, and whispered: "Our Father;" but Borghild sat at her gable window and listened long to the weird strain.
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