was all alone, and, so decided the wily Thore, it behooved him to hasten and offer his fealty to King Olaf, for his own sake and for the selfish sake of his steward.
So Thore, bowing to the king, began in a pleading tone.
“Now thou art lord over all Norway. I brought thee home, and thou hast come into thy own. But my King, while I joy at thy triumph, my heart is torn with sorrow for one I loved before I met thee in the Irish land. I love him not as I love thee, but he was my friend in my defenceless years, and for him I would claim mercy at thy hands.”
As Thore ceased speaking, he looked up and met the gaze of Father Meilge’s dark eyes. Something in that look awed him, though the priest’s face seemed gentle and encouraging. An unreasoning hate entered Thore’s soul, and he returned Father Meilge’s look with one of blackest import. The priest did not shrink, though he could gaze down into the turbid depths of that crime-covered soul. He saw, as in a foul abyss, the murderous intent, yea, even the murderous fate for himself. He looked sadly at the traitor, and the gentle smile upon his face and the Christ-like pity in his heart were as a shadow and an echo of the look and voice of One who said, centuries before, in the face of the most awful crime earth ever knew, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
