Full, full was the great king’s heart as he stood that memorable spring morning, that hailed him master of his own. Deep down in his earnest soul was a humble thankfulness, a sincere consecration of his life-work as a Christian sovereign, that took from his hour of triumph all thought of unworthy self-seeking. God had brought him to his own land that he might bring his land to the one true God. It seemed as if he might almost leap ashore in his eagerness to plant the sacred sign on the soil of Norway—the sign of his country’s consecration to Christ. As Olaf stood, filled with fervent hopes and holy aims, the vision that so often came to him swept down from the cloudless, arching heavens. The sky was filled with the faces and forms of the old, angry, defiant gods, the thunder of Thor’s hammer, the clashing of the shield of Odin, the taunts of the victorious heroes, and the jeers of the Valkyrias in Valhalla, as they scorned the pale, silent Nazarene. Troubled was the soul of the king.
“I am Thy champion, O Christ!” he cried, as if he truly saw his Lord.
“I am Thy champion! They shall not defy thee! Norraway shall be all Thy own, the land of Thy Cross. Taunt not the Christ, O Thor! He hath a true champion. For the blows of thy mighty gauntlet I will give the sweet touch of Christ’s gospel. Now will I accept thy challenge, Thor!”
As the king ceased speaking, Thorgills swept
