Thor's fingers could hardly wait to
clutch the stubby handle which they knew so well; but he sat quite still
on the throne beside ugly old Thrym, with his hands meekly folded and
his head bowed like a bashful bride.
The giant servant drew nearer, nearer, puffing and blowing, strong
though he was, beneath the mighty weight. He was about to lay it at
Thor's feet (for he thought it so heavy that no maiden could lift it or
hold it in her lap), when suddenly Thor's heart swelled, and he gave a
most unmaidenly shout of rage and triumph. With one swoop he grasped the
hammer in his iron fingers; with the other arm he tore off the veil that
hid his terrible face, and trampled it under foot; then he turned to the
frightened king, who cowered beside him on the throne.
"Thief!" he cried. "Freia sends you _this_ as a wedding gift!" And he
whirled the hammer about his head, then hurled it once, twice, thrice,
as it rebounded to his hand; and in the first stroke, as of lightning,
Thrym rolled dead from his throne; in the second stroke perished the
whole giant household--these ugly enemies of the AEsir; and in the third
stroke the palace itself tumbled together and fell to the ground like a
toppling playhouse of blocks.
But Loki and Thor stood safely among the ruins, dressed in their
tattered maiden robes, a quaint and curious sight; and Loki, full of
mischief now as ever, burst out laughing.
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