There are few lovelier sights than the city of Drontheim, to one coming over the swaying tides of the Atlantic and entering the quiet gulf along whose semicircular shore the city stands. The Nidaros of Olaf’s day was by no means the Drontheim of to-day, but even in its more primitive stages and before there was any stage of settlement at all, the natural surroundings were no less attractive. The mountains rose up as majestically, almost springing out of the sea; and looking down from their heights and over the crescent of shore and peaceful gulf, one could catch an inspiring glimpse of the great Atlantic beyond.
In this quiet haven that seemed to narrow in their lives, between the relentless mountains and the spiritless inlet of the sea, that had meekly sheltered itself in their strong shadow, the restless old sea kings of the Norseland would dash out on their viking ships to the larger life of the ocean.
To Olaf Tryggevesson, however much he loved the sea, the sight of Nidaros had ever been most welcome. Perhaps because it had been in his youth the place most dangerous for him to enter, he loved it passionately, and emphasized its attractions as we are fain to do the things impossible to us. All the stirring associations of the place, even the memory of events beyond his own recollection, but treasured in Thorgills’ verses, the adventures of his stormy childhood, rose up before him, as the “Alruna” was entering
