Gunnar.
[In eager suspense.] But thou—thou, Örnulf? Örnulf. [Darkly.] Six sons followed me into the fight. Gunnar. [Breathlessly.] But homewards? Örnulf. None. Gunnar. [Appalled.] None! [Softly.] And Thorolf, Thorolf! [Deep emotion among the bystanders. Hiördis shows signs of a violent mental struggle; Dagny weeps silently by the high-seat on the right. Sigurd stands beside her, painfully agitated.
Örnulf.
[After a short pause.] It is hard for a many-branching pine to be stripped in a single storm. But men die and men live;—hand me a horn; I will drink to my sons' memory. [One of Sigurd's men gives him a horn.] Hail to you where now ye ride, my bold sons! Close upon your heels shall the bronze-gates not clang, for ye come to the hall with a great following. [Drinks, and hands back the horn.] And now home to Iceland! Örnulf has fought his last fight; the old tree has but one green branch left, and it must be shielded warily. Where is Thorolf?
Egil.
[To his father.] Ay, let me see Thorolf! Örnulf
