“King Olaf, I have come to speak of other matters to thee. Nay, Thorgills, thou too must hear me,” for the bard had risen to leave. “Thy faithful people think that their master has long enough mourned his fair Irish princess, and that it were well for thee to wed, and place some noble maiden of Norway beside thee on thy throne.”
Olaf lifted an anxious face to the Thane. “Jarl Sigvalde, I would do anything for my people but that. My heart is so bruised for my blue-eyed Gyda that I can have no thought of any maiden.”
“Couldst thou not strive to think of some noble lady?” suggested Sigvalde.
“Of a truth, I have scarce glanced at any of our maids, but now I do remember I saw one weaving, at the house of thy Lady Aastrid. It seemed as if she appeared like my Gyda,—not so gentle mayhap, but somewhat like. She sat near the Lady Aastrid as I came in, and when the others rose with maiden smiles and blushes to greet me, she only held her head somewhat higher, as a princess might do, and she neither smiled nor blushed. She was very comely, I do remember, but all unsmiling. But, ah me! my Jarl, I think not of any maiden, only of my Gyda. My heart is still full of her. Thou must go? My duty, then, to thy lady, my noble kinswoman.”
As Sigvalde left, the servants brought in the tapers. At a sign from his master, Thorgills tuned
