And now they all sat silent and motionless in the lofty hall; the lamp flickered sadly under the vaulted roof; the whole party of knights looked like pale, lifeless images dressed up in gigantic armour.
Then arose the chaplain of the castle of Drontheim, the only priest among the knightly throng, and said, "Dear Lord Biorn, our eyes and thoughts have all been directed to you and your son in a wonderful manner; but so it has been ordered by the providence of God.

You perceive that we cannot withdraw them; and you would do well to tell us exactly what you know concerning the fearful state of the boy.
Perchance, the solemn tale, which I expect from you, might do good to this disturbed assembly." Biorn cast a look of displeasure on the priest, and answered, "Sir chaplain, you have more share in the history than either you or I could desire.

Excuse me, if I am unwilling to trouble these light-hearted warriors with so rueful a tale." But the chaplain approached nearer to the knight, and said, in a firm yet very mild tone, "Dear lord, hitherto it rested with you alone to relate, or not to relate it; but now that you have so strangely hinted at the share which I have had in your son's calamity, I must positively demand that you will repeat word for word how everything came to pass.
My honour will have it so, and that will weigh with you as much as with me." In stern compliance Biorn bowed his haughty head, and began the following narration.

"This time seven years I was keeping the Christmas feast with my assembled followers.

We have many venerable old customs which have descended to us by inheritance from our great forefathers; as, for instance, that of placing a gilded boar's head on the table, and making thereon knightly vows of daring and wondrous deeds.