ladies, and as many of the populace as the little stone palace could accommodate.
The evening of his bridal day, Olaf sat with Gudrun in one of the inner chambers of the palace. The soft glow of a lamp mellowed the light of the huge oak logs burning upon the hearth. Skins of wild beasts were spread upon the floor, and over the doors and around the walls were burnished shields and swords and spears. Olaf sat in his high carved chair, his cloak of fur laid aside, and his head resting upon his hand. He had won his will. Gudrun was his bride, and still he was very far from realizing the joy that he had believed this fact would bring. There she sat, away from the glow of the hearth, even as she seemed to have withdrawn herself from the glow of the affection that filled his strong heart. He could not reproach her. He could not even be masterful to her, for when he looked at her, beautiful even in her discontent, he thought of her only as a poor little maiden left to his care.
Suddenly his face brightened. Rising from his chair, he unlocked a drawer in the oaken press opposite to him, and took out a richly carved ivory box. Closing the press, he sat down with the box in his hand. He turned towards Gudrun. She was still in the same place, clad in her rich bridal dress of embroidered silk, the veil and bride’s crown covering her dark locks. Her hands were playing listlessly with
