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Truls stood and gazed at them with large, bewildered eyes. He tried hard to despise the braggart, but ended with envying him. "Ha, fiddler, strike up a tune that shall ring through marrow and bone," shouted Syvert Stein, who struck the floor with his heels and moved his body to the measure of a spring-dance.
Syvert in the mean while put a huge silver beer-jug to his mouth, and, pledging his guests, emptied it even to the dregs. But the bride's cheek was pale; and it was so still in the boat that every man could hear his own breathing. "Ha, to-day is Syvert Stein's wedding-day!" shouted the bridegroom, growing hot with wrath.
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 Stein, the bridegroom, trod the earth with a firm, springy step, and spoke many a cheery word to the bride, who walked, silent and with downcast eyes, at his side. She wore the ancestral bridal crown on her head, and the little silver disks around its edge tinkled and shook as she walked.
The shadow of thunder upon a life that was opening it was an ill omen, and its gloom sank into the hearts of the wedding guests. They spoke in undertones and threw pitying glances at the bride. Then at length Syvert Stein lost his patience. "In sooth," cried he, springing up from his seat, "where is to-day the cheer that is wont to abide in the Norseman's breast?
They laid bare a hidden deep in her heart, and she shrank back st the sight of her own vileness. How could she repair the injury she had done him? How could she heal the wound she had inflicted? A number of guests came up to greet her and among them Syvert Stein, a bold-looking young man, who, during that summer, had led her frequently in the dance.
It came so unexpectedly that Truls had no time to prepare for defense; so he merely stretched out the hand in which he held the violin to ward off the blow which he saw was coming; but Syvert tore the instrument from his grasp and dashed it against the cannon, and, as it happened, just against the touch-hole.
The parish was filled with rumors, and after the Christmas holiday it was told for certain that the proud maiden of Skogli had been promised in marriage to Syvert Stein. It was the general belief that the families had made the match, and that Borghild, at least, had hardly had any voice in the matter.
A dark suspicion shot through the bridegroom's mind. He stared intently upon the weeping Borghild then turned his gaze to the fiddler, who, still regarding her, stood playing, with a half-frenzied look and motion. "You cursed wretch!" shrieked Syvert, and made a leap over two benches to where Truls was standing.
Syvert Like brier-roses thy red cheeks blush, Borghild And thine are rough like the thorny bush; Both An' a heigho! Syvert So fresh and green is the sunny lea; O heigh ho! Borghild The fiddle twangeth so merrily; O heigh ho! Syvert So lightly goeth the lusty reel, Borghild And round we whirl like a spinning-wheel; Both An' a heigho! Syvert Thine eyes are bright like the sunny fjord; O heigh ho!
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