Finn.
And the Danes killed him at Oslo-fiord?
Biörn.
If you know not that, ask any child of five.
Finn.
So Knut Alfson was the last of our knighthood? And now he's dead and gone! [Holds up the helmet.] Well, thou must e'en be content to hang scoured and bright in the Banquet Hall; for what art thou now but an empty nut-shell? The kernel—the worms have eaten that many a winter agone.
What say you, Biörn—may not one call Norway's land an empty nut-shell, even like the helmet here; bright without, worm-eaten within?
Biörn.
Hold your peace, and mind your task!—Is the helmet ready?
Finn.
It shines like silver in the moonlight.
Biörn.
Then put it by.—See here; scrape the rust off the sword.
Finn.
[Turning the sword over and examining it.] Is it worth while?
Biörn.
What mean you?
