not dread the sword or the arrow upon the field or the sea at morn; but it is the crawling sting of death, the stealthy cup, the silent dagger in the dark, that will chill the best courage, even thine, bravest of Norsemen, my King!”
Father Reachta rose to leave.
“Stay!” shouted Olaf; “dost thon mean—thou wouldst say—”
The priest paused. “My King, I may only counsel and not command thee in this matter; but I say to thee,—beware of the dark maiden of the dark brood of Ironbeard!”
“So say I too,” cried an eager voice, as the curtains parted and Thorgills came forth. “On that word of warning, Father Reachta, I join my hand to thine.”
Olaf threw back his head and laughed aloud, a deep, sonorous laugh. “One would think, my faithful Thorgills, that thou and Father Reachta were treating of some mighty plot against me, and not speaking of a poor little maid that hath no plot to hide. She hath shown her hate so clearly, it hath made me desire her for her very honesty.”
“Well, my King,” said the bard, a keen note of disappointment in his voice, “we men argue not skilfully such points. The Lady Aastrid doth say—”
“The Lady Aastrid!” Olaf laughed again. “Why, my noble kinswoman seems as if she would make the sign of the cross every time poor Gudrun comes near. It were a shame for the warriors, and the women even,
