aid. Thore stood over his victim, in doubt whether to strike again or to fly. He knew, if caught, how surely King Olaf would avenge the priest’s death. He held the dripping dagger still poised. Father Meilge looked up.
“Sheathe thy knife,” he said; “it hath done its work. It needs no other blow. See,” he whispered faintly, pointing to the stream of blood; “so goeth my life out upon that tide, and goeth swiftly. Sheathe thy knife. Nay, there is blood upon it,—fling it far from thee. Now stoop thee down, unhappy man, until I give thee a message from that dear Country to which I go,—from that sweet Christ whom I shall see so soon. Surely, if I die in defence of his holy Name, He will admit me to His presence soon. But thou! I forgive thee even as I hope to be forgiven. The sole punishment thou must bear from me is every day to say, ‘O Christ, show me Thy light!’ Now stoop thee down and say after me, ‘O Christ, show me Thy light!’”
Drawn against his own will by the power of the dying eyes, Thore knelt down and repeated the words.
“Now fly!” said the failing voice; “fly quickly, lest thou be found.”
Thore needed no second order to escape. Maidoch was striving to stop the flow of blood with the torn pieces of her veil. Father Meilge smiled gratefully in her anguished face. ”Poor little maid of my own
