The notch in Skofnung they whetted, but the more they whetted the bigger it was.
So he went to Reykir, and flung Skofnung at Skeggi's feet, with this verse:-- (28) "I bring thee, thus broken and edgeless, The blade that thou gavest me, Skeggi! I warrant thy weapon could bite not: I won not the fight by its witchcraft.
No gain of its virtue nor glory I got in the strife of the weapons, When we met for to mingle the sword-storm For the maiden my singing adorns." Said Skeggi, "It went as I warned thee." Cormac flung forth and went home to Mel: and when he met with Dalla he made this song:-- (29) "To the field went I forth, O my mother The flame of the armlet who guardest,-- To dare the cave-dweller, my foeman And I deemed I should smite him in battle.
But the brand that is bruited in story It brake in my hand as I held it; And this that should thrust men to slaughter Is thwarted and let of its might.
(30) For I borrowed to bear in the fighting No blunt-edged weapon of Skeggi: There is strength in the serpent that quivers By the side of the land of the girdle.
But vain was the virtue of Skofnung When he vanquished the sharpness of Whitting; And a shard have I shorn, to my sorrow, From the shearer of ringleted mail.
(31) Yon tusker, my foe, wrought me trouble When targe upon targe I had carven: For the thin wand of slaughter was shattered And it sundered the ground of my handgrip.
Loud bellowed the bear of the sea-king When he brake from his lair in the scabbard, At the hest of the singer, who seeketh The sweet hidden draught of the gods.
(32) Afar must I fare, O my mother, And a fate points the pathway before me, For that white-wreathen tree may woo not -- Two wearisome morrows her outcast.
And it slays me, at home to be sitting, So set is my heart on its goddess, As a lawn with fair linen made lovely -- I can linger no third morrow's morn." After that, Cormac went one day to Reykir and talked with Skeggi, who said the holmgang had been brought to scorn.

Then answered Cormac:-- (33) "Forget it, O Frey of the helmet, -- Lo, I frame thee a song in atonement-- That the bringer of blood, even Skofnung, I bare thee so strangely belated.
For by stirrers of storm was I wounded; They smote me where perches the falcon: But the blade that I borrowed, O Skeggi, Was borne in the clashing of edges.
(34) I had deemed, O thou Grey of fighting, Of the fierce song of Odin,--my neighbour, I had deemed that a brand meet for bloodshed I bare to the crossways of slaughter.
Nay,--thy glaive, it would gape not nor ravin Against him, the rover who robbed me: And on her, as the surge on the shingle, My soul beats and breaks evermore.".