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But blind Hoder stood sorrowfully away from the others, and did not join in any of their sports. Loki, seeing this, went to him and said, "Brother of the gloomy brow, why do you not take part with us in our games?" "I am blind," answered Hoder. "I can neither leap, nor run, nor throw the lance." "But you can shoot arrows from your bow," said Loki.
Then, instead of the laughter which Hoder waited to hear, there went up a shuddering wail of terror; and angry hands seized Hoder and angry voices were in his ear. "What have I done?" he pleaded. "I but wished to show honor to Balder as the rest have done." "And you have killed him!" they cried. "You shall die yourself." "Peace! Peace!" said Heimdal.
Hermod, at the word of the despairing Hoder, mounted the eight-footed steed, and set off on the perilous journey. Meanwhile, the other gods prepared the funeral pyre for Balder, determined that it should be worthy of the beloved and honored god.
"Such a deed of violence must not stain the home of the gods. Moreover, Hoder did it all unwittingly. It was Loki who directed his aim, and we are all to blame that we allowed him to set foot on our playground." Bitter indeed was Hoder's grief, and he implored his heart-broken mother, Frigga, that he might be allowed to take Balder's place in dark Hela's realm.
"Because I cannot see where Balder stands, and have nothing to throw if I could," replied Hoder. "If that is all," said Loki, "come with me. I will give you something to throw, and direct your aim." Hoder, thinking no evil, went with Loki and did as he was told.
"I have here a little dart that I will give you," replied Loki. "And since you cannot direct your aim, I will guide your arm." Joyfully Hoder thanked him, and when Loki indicated the direction in which he was to throw, he hurled the dart with all his might. Unswervingly flew the mistletoe dart, and instead of falling at Balder's feet, it lodged in his heart, so that he fell dead on the grass.
There the River Rhine, no larger than a meadow-brook, breaks forth from beneath a mountain of ice, which the Frost giants and blind old Hoder, the Winter-king, had built long years before; for they had vainly hoped that they might imprison the river at its fountain-head.
The death of Nanna, and the blind fratricide Hoder, are touchingly done, and Hermod's ride to Hela's realm is stately. But as a whole the thing is rather dim and tame. The post is of no great value. I remember the late Sir Francis Doyle, who was Commissioner of Customs as well as Professor, saying to me once with a humorous melancholy, "Ah! Eau de Cologne pays much better than Poetry!"
"Alas!" said Hoder, "that I can do only as some one shall direct my aim, for I can see no target." "Do you hear that laughter?" asked Loki. "Thor has hurled the straight trunk of a pine-tree at your brother; and, rather than touch such a glorious mark; it has turned aside, and been shivered to pieces upon the rocks over there.
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