Finn.
The edge is gone.
Biörn.
What's that to you? Give it me.—Here, take the shield.
Finn.
[As before.] There is no grip to it!
Biörn.
[Mutters.] Let me get a grip on you [Finn hums to himself for a while.
Biörn.
What now?
Finn.
An empty helmet, a sword with no edge, a shield with no grip—so it has all come to that. Who can blame Lady Inger if she leaves such weapons to hang scoured and polished on the walls, instead of rusting them in Danish blood?
Biörn.
Folly! Is there not peace in the land?
Finn.
Peace? Ay, when the peasant has shot away his last arrow, and the wolf has reft the last lamb from the fold, then is there peace between them. But 'tis a strange friendship. Well, well; let that pass. 'Tis fitting, as I said, that the harness hang bright in the hall; for you know
