kingdom, and his whole life seemed passing in review before him.
“Norraway! Norraway!” he murmured, in a lover-like tone, sweeping with flashing eyes the familiar, fascinating picture of sea and shore, rock, fen, mountain and fiord.
Olaf was attired in full coat of mail of linked steel and gold, his scarlet, fur-edged cloak and burnished golden helmet with glittering outspread wings, catching the rays of the rising sun,—a dazzling figure of majestic beauty, as he stood waiting to touch his native shore. As the preparations of his tent were concluded, the king took a silken standard in his hands. Upon the crimson folds was an embroidered cross of gold, while the flagstaff was surmounted by the same sacred emblem, in burnished metal. Beside the king stood Bishop Sigurd in the robes of his office, wearing the mitre upon his head, and bearing in his hand the vessel of holy water. Father Meilge bore the Bishop’s crosier, while Father Reachta carried the thurifer with its smoking, pungent incense. With them, bearing the mass books, were Father Tuathal and Father Breasal.
The crew stood waiting the command of the king to go ashore. Thorgills walked beside Fiachtna and Maidoch, watching the old man’s earnest, prayerful gaze upon the cross, and the devout peace in the young girl’s beautiful eyes.
