mothers, and thou hast with thy dark beauty bewitched the king.”
Gudrun sat in wonder, unable to understand her mother’s tone of triumph.
“But, my mother,” she said pleadingly, “dost thou not remember I said last night I would not wed the king? I bade thee so say to him when thou didst go to the palace this morning. What wild words hast thou now, of King Olaf proclaiming our betrothal? Thou dost know that I told thee—aye, thee, my mother—that I would not wed the king.”
“True, girl, thou didst say some foolish words like that; but I remembered that my Gudrun had vowed to me to wed this viking and avenge our wrong. Thou hast vowed, remember. Naught but thy death can release thee. Thou hast sworn by the hammer of Thor and the blood of the Dragon. Aye, girl! last night thou didst say senseless things as a maiden will. A maiden’s wit sits not steady long. Yesterday thou wert full of a girl’s folly, because thy rough viking grew soft under thy beauty and thy tears. To-day thou hast been proclaimed the king’s bride, and in a month thou wilt be wed. So no more tears, my Gudrun. As much beauty as thou wilt to stronger make the spell thou hast cast over this Olaf, our mightiest on sea or land.”
Twilight was falling over the palace next evening, and Olaf sat alone in his guest-chamber. He was
