a milk-white charger, and his whole body was encased in shining armor. From his shoulders fell a long coat of vivid scarlet that lay blood-red upon the snowy flanks of his horse. On his shield of burnished steel was a golden cross, and a gilded helmet rested on his long, red-brown, flowing locks. A full beard swept over the broad chest. Taller than any man around him, full of grace and strength and fire, in every movement this viking seemed indeed of some greater world, and might well justify the Norsewomen’s belief that he had but freshly come from the home of the Valkyrias, and that his grace and valor and beauty had but lately delighted the hosts of Alruna maidens in the stately halls of Valhalla.
The chieftain sprang from his horse and stood at the portals. His followers gathered around him as he spoke to Thora. If her heart had been shaken at his appearance, it was even more shaken at his question, “Where is Jarl Haakon?”
Thora could not answer. Then the chieftain looked sternly at the trembling woman. “They told me that I should find him here. Disperse ye, my men, to find him.”
As his followers scattered all over the house and the fields, the chieftain turned to Thora. “I am Olaf Tryggevesson,” he said, “and Jarl Haakon hath held my place too long. He shall hold it no longer.”
For hours and hours they searched, passing and repassing the bridge of boards over the ditch. At
