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Steadfast stood Gelline,
Shouted above the crowd:
“Many the mail-clad men
Who have followed me here to the Iamtlanders’ Thing;
Good folk, I would quietly speak;
Later the time for blows.”
Swung he the spear and smiled
Proud as a god in the grove,
The bonders shrank back, but muttered
Heavily words of defiance.
Breaking was unloosed upon them
The tempest that heralds the strife, —
Then arose Lawman Tore,
Rapping for silence and heed.
Old he stood there and mighty,
Looked at the Iamtlanders all around,
As were he regretfully seeking
Faces of olden times,
Or as heard he stirring to meet him
The tremulous stream of irresolute thoughts
Groping for strength and courage.
Despondent and dim was his gaze;
Slowly he bowed his head. Then fell
Sorrowful words from his lips,
Hopeless as autumn rains.
“Rife in these latter days are rumors
Of how it is that in Norway
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