enough birth, to look and to be like any princess I have ever known. She is the maiden Freda, the one daughter of Earl Gormo, one of thy stanchest friends, my King. He hath bequeathed his loyalty to this little maid, for she hath asked Thorgills to play the music of thy saga, and she hath sung it with all her heart.”
“It were worth while to do deeds, and go viking, if one’s sagas can be sung by thy lips, fair maid, and if one’s past sorrows can bring tears, that are precious as diamonds when they fall from such eyes as thine. Dost thou not think so too, maiden?” he said, turning suddenly from the blushing, beautiful Freda, to the cool, scornful Gudrun. Aastrid’s brow clouded as the king spoke to the dark maiden, and the girl noted it as she said slowly and proudly to Olaf:
“All women’s tears should be precious, my lord King, seeing they are the rarest gems we have, and costing dearest.”
Olaf looked puzzled. “What is thy name, maiden?”
“Gudrun, my lord King.”
“Who is thy father?”
“He that is called Ironbeard.”
“The Black Earl?” Olaf started, as he asked.
“Yes, my lord King.”
Olaf looked curiously at the girl for a second. She neither colored nor moved under his glance. Then he said, with great kindness in his deep tone, “I hope that thou and I will be better friends, maiden, than thy father and I have been.”
