he prayed for strength until the end—the end that sometimes comes so swiftly it seems to more than meet us. So, silently, Father Meilge walked back to the tent, gazing as he went on the wonderful beauty of the Northern sky, and making anew his consecration of life and heart and home.
Christmas morning after the mass the king assembled the peasants to speak to them. Above Olaf’s voice asking them to consider the question of Christianity, rose the loud demands of Ironbeard and his followers, that the king should do as all other kings of Norway had done.
“We want no Nazarene!” they shouted. “He is dead—dead on the cross.”
“Christ is eternal!” declared Olaf.
“We want no Christ, but our own strong gods, who give us victory. If thou will not offer sacrifice, how will the harvest be? Where will our children find bread if the gods curse the grain because thou wilt not appease them?”
“Christ is Lord of the harvest and is Master of all the earth.”
“We want not Christ the White. We want our old gods and a full harvest.”
A tall, dark woman, with deep-set black eyes, stood up before the king. Upon her dress were the cabalistic signs of the magician. The serpents of Odin were entwined all around her skirt, in skilful embroidery; while this same design, with the hammer of Thor,
