despise the new faith that I would bring into the land. I tell thee, girl, the deeds of Christian martyrs before our kingdom had a name, or ever those forefathers that thou boastest of were born, would make any hero’s deeds grow to naught; and these same fathers of thine were viking kings for plunder, and harried the shores where old women and children dwelt. Fie upon thee! Say thy prayers better, maiden, and ask the Christ to forgive thee for bringing back thy heathen gods in this the day of His Grace.”
A perfect stillness was in the room, and Olaf’s voice was as a trumpet. The women were speechless with reverence for his words, and with wonder at the boldness of Gudrun. That maiden stood unmoved through all the king’s harangue, and if any emotion swept over the proud dark face it was anger or hatred, and anything but fear.
Olaf turned to Freda. “And thou, little maiden, with the eyes like my lost princess, thou hast a saga, I will warrant, fit for Christian lips to utter, and Christian ears to hear.”
“I have one poor little saga, my King, I will give it to thee if so thou willest, and wish it were better.”
Freda was a charming picture, in her shyness; and her eyes lifted timidly to Olaf’s face were full of a sentiment that could scarcely be called love, so much of awe and reverence were mingled with it. Gudrun regarded her with lofty contempt.
“Sing thy saga, Freda; I will warrant it is not so
