“Aye—I knew him.” Thorgills’ face flushed like any maiden’s, and he bent down to take up his harp.
“Lives he still?” Fiachtna asked.
“Aye, my Jarl, he doth still live to serve his king.”
Fiachtna was looking smilingly at the scald. Then noting his confusion, said earnestly: “I can see full well that thou knowest him. Keep him ever for thy friend, as the king hath kept him.”
As Fiachtna ceased speaking, the four priests came up. Fiachtna and Maidoch rose to receive them.
“My children,” said Father Breasal, though Fiachtna had the snows of more winters upon his brow than did the monk, “ye have passed through many perils, and have seen many sorrows. Now ye are the guests of the great Christian king, Olaf, who goes to claim his throne. Yon holy Bishop, Sigurd, and my brethren here and my unworthy self, go with him to help him to spread the faith of Christ. King Olaf will welcome you to his own land because you are Christians, for he loves to fill his kingdom with the children of the cross.”
Fiachtna bowed his head devoutly. “Truly I love my own land, but if after my many sorrows I am deemed worthy to labor for Christ, even in a strange land, I will be content.”
“And thou, little maid?” Father Meilge turned his dark, penetrating eye upon Maidoch, while Thorgills listened breathlessly for her answer. The girl
