"Then I will tell you. We had been ravaging the Frankish coasts, and the lad got a wound in his shoulder; we carried him home, for he had fought like a wolf, and the leeches tried to cure him, but it was all in vain; they said he would never be fit to go to battle again. Poor Sigard! he could not bear that, and he said one day when I was trying to cheer him, 'No, father, I shall never be able to strike a good downright blow again, and I cannot live until I die a cow's death in my bed; I will die as my fathers have died before me when they could no longer fight.' I saw what he meant, but I did not like the thought, and I tried to change the subject, but he returned to it again and again, until at last he persuaded me to let him have his way. So we took one of our ships, stuffed it full with things that would burn easily, made a funereal pile on the deck, and laid him thereon in state, with a mantle fit for a king thrown over him. Then we bade him goodbye and a happy journey to Valhalla; he was as cheerful as if he were going to his bridal; we tried to appear as if we were too, but it tore my heart all the same. Then we applied the torch and cut the cable; the wind blew fair, the bark stood out to sea. She had not got half-a-mile from shore when the flames burst out from every crevice of the hold; we saw them surround the pile where he lay passive; he did not move so far as we could see, and after that all was hidden from our sight in flame and smoke."