Of Agne, Son of Dag
Agne was the name of Dag's son, who was king after him -- a powerful and celebrated man, expert, and exercised in all feats. It happened one summer that King Agne went with his army to Finland, and landed and marauded. The Finland people gathered a large army, and proceeded to the strife under a chief called Froste. There was a great battle, in which King Agne gained the victory, and Froste fell there with a great many of his people. King Agne proceeded with armed hand through Finland, subdued it, and made enormous booty. He took Froste's daughter Skjalv, and her brother Loge, and carried them along with him. When he sailed from the east he came to land at Stoksund, and put up his tent on the flat side of the river, where then there was a wood. King Agne had at the time the gold ornament which had belonged to Visbur. He now married Skjalv, and she begged him to make burial feast in honour of her father. He invited a great many guests, and made a great feast. He had become very celebrated by his expedition, and there was a great drinking match. Now when King Agne had got drank, Skjalv bade him take care of his gold ornament which he had about his neck; therefore he took hold of the ornament, and bound it fast about his neck before he went to sleep. The land-tent stood at the wood side, and a high tree over the tent protected it against the heat of the sun. Now when King Agne was asleep, Skjalv took a noose, and fastened it under the ornament. Thereupon her men threw down the tent-poles, cast the loop of the noose up in the branches of the tree, and hauled upon it, so that the king was hanged close under the branches and died; and Skjalv with her men ran down to their ships, and rowed away. King Agne was buried upon the spot, which was afterwards called Agnefet; and it lies on the east side of the Tauren, and west of Stoksund. Thjodolf speaks of it thus: --
How do ye like the high-souled maid,
Who, with the grim Fate-goddess' aid,
Avenged her sire? -- made Swithiod's king
Through air in golden halter swing?
How do ye like her, Agne's men?
Think ye that any chief again
Will court the fate your chief befell,
To ride on wooden horse to hell?