the Fiord of Nidaros. The “Aastrid” was sailing ahead, and the name recalled his mother. Ah! how perfect would his triumph be, when that mother would see him coming into his inheritance. And blue-eyed Gyda! dead and resting on the shore by the waves of the Irish sea! His throat grew full and husky as he thought of those parting days in Erin—the burial of the princess, the grief of King Kavaran, and his own deep sorrow. Since the first tears that were wrung from him by the blow that struck so fiercely, Olaf had suffered silently as a Norseman and a king. Coming into his own to-day, the thought of Gyda—the crown she would never wear—the throne she would never ascend—came to him with a new anguish.
Perhaps the stronger sentiment was for his mother, who had struggled so valiantly for his rights and who would so proudly rejoice on seeing him wear them to-day. Only his mother would perfectly rejoice with him. Gyda might wear his crown and be his queen, but half her heart would be back in Erin, and all her joy would be sobered by the pangs of parting. Gyda was a Celt, and Olaf knew by the Cymric blood that still tingled within from centuries back, that home and Celtic hearts are never divorced. Still he hungered for Gyda’s voice and for Gyda’s face; and so strong grew the hunger at times that he felt as one doomed to fast at a feast, when the full welcome of his country came upon his desolate mood.
