a little testy. “He only remembered that he saw a maiden seated beside thee weaving. But his heart is still full of the Irish princess, and he thinks not of any maiden. Olaf said so himself. It was the king’s word when we brought marriage to his mind.”
“Who spoke of marriage?” the old earl’s handsome wife queried, an unusual sharpness in her gentle voice. “Men are ever flying to the event, leaving no time to travel over the road surely. But, Sigvalde, my dear lord,” drawing near and placing her hand coaxingly upon his arm, “when Olaf spake of Gudrun—she was the maiden I am sure; no other would look so on our Olaf but she of the black brood of Ironbeard—think thou now, my lord, when the king spake of her, did his face seem as if it were a pleasing fancy to picture the girl?”
Earl Sigvalde’s brow was corrugated with heavy lines of thought, as this question, too delicate for his strong grasp, lay before him.
“I remember not, Aastrid, how he looked, but I do remember me that he said—and a king’s word is no light saying—that his heart was full of Gyda, and that he could think of none other—”
“Yes! yes! I know that so he said,” Aastrid spoke decidedly, but the tone of conviction was absent from her tone.
Earl Sigvalde looked at his wife, somewhat puzzled. “Something is working in thy woman’s wit, my lady. I know not what it is; but if it be to turn our Olaf’s
