be glad of thy music. Thou shalt sit by my side at the feast.” Thorgills looked up into her smiling, beautiful face and hesitated. Why indeed should he be lonely and sad, longing for a silent, indifferent maiden, when Thora and her merry company of fair women—for he had heard of the feastings at Rimul—were waiting to give him laughter and light and song?
As Thorgills hesitated, he glanced up the road and saw Father Meilge approaching.
“Wilt thou not come? Thou shalt sit by my side at the feast.” Thora’s voice was as sweet as a dulcet harp-string, her face like a rose in bloom, and her golden hair like skeins of strength to draw the gaze from the sunshine.
Thorgills was unwilling that Father Meilge should find him in such company, for, like King Olaf, the scald was greatly attached to the priest. He turned in haste to the smiling woman. “After a space, I will come back to thee and to thy feasting. Now I must go, but in a short hour thou shalt see me.”
Thorgills did not turn to look at Thora as he was leaving; and as he hastened away, her face was dark with anger.
“It is yon priest he fears. He will not return. If I could but conquer Thorgills, I might come close to the king. Who knows? I ruled one overlord of Norway; but this king, with his Christian manners, would be another matter.”
