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Updated: May 22, 2025
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.
Syvert Come, let us dance in the gladsome day, Borghild Dance hate, and sorrow, and care away; Both An' a heigh ho! The stave was at an end. The hot and flushed dancers straggled over the floor by twos and threes, and the big beer-horns were passed from hand to hand.
And the dusk which slept upon the black rafters was quickened and shook with the weird sound; every pulse in the wide hall beat more rapidly, and every eye kindled with a bolder fire. And a clear, tremulous treble answered: "So gladly tread I the dance with thee; O heigh ho!" Truls knew the voices only too well; it was Syvert Stein and Borghild who were singing a stave.
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