was represented on her long dark cloak. A serpent of bronze was wreathed around her head, its upturned crest just over her black, beetling brows.
“It is Ingrid, the Finnish sorceress,” said some. “It is Ironbeard’s witch of a wife.”
The woman pointed her long forefinger at the king. “If the evil eye come among us, if our children sicken and die, if our cattle drop dead in the fields, and the herrings fly out of the sea from us! Why dost thou anger the old gods that they curse us? Why must we suffer for thy White Christ?”
Unable to stop the flow of protest and even abuse, Olaf agreed to go with them to their temple. With his retinue, the king entered the magnificent structure dedicated to the war-god, Thor. At the door they laid down their arms, for it was a profanation of the temple to bring any weapon of war within its walls. No one noticed, however, that King Olaf still held in his hand his stout, gold-headed stick. Entering the temple, the king walked leisurely up to the costly statue of Thor, resplendent with its gold and silver rings. He glanced around, and at a nod from him, several of his most trusted followers, each carrying a strong stick in his hand, placed themselves before the splendid statues of the Norse gods. King Olaf raised his stick menacingly at Thor. “Thou hast defied the White Christ,” he cried; “I am the champion of the Cross. I send thee back thy challenge, Thor;” and with powerful force, he brought
