“See, my Gudrun, every mine of Norraway have I made pay tribute to thy beauty.” Olaf drew out the gems, and selecting a necklace of rarest stones held it to the light, letting the jewels absorb the glow of the fire and lamp, and pour it back in a mellower flood. He held the necklace towards her.
“Let me clasp it about thy throat, my Gudrun, and mayhaps thou wilt lay thy head upon my breast, and let me touch thy red lips.” He turned and rising up in his great height looked down pleadingly into her face. Something gleamed in Gudrun’s lifted hand. Something flashed over Olaf’s head, and a cold metallic thrust was at his throat and coming straight to his heart. He started back. A terror, such as never had seized the great viking in all his days of battle on land and sea, shook Olaf then. He dropped the necklace, and caught Gudrun’s arm with one strong hand, while with the other he dashed the dagger to the ground. Then with an exclamation of horror, he flung her from him with such force that she lay breathless and stunned on the white bear rug,—her long crimson mantle looking upon its snowy surface like the stream of blood she would have poured out. Olaf threw the jewels back into the box, and sitting down covered his face with his hands, groaning aloud:
“O great Christ of the Cross! Her hand to strike me! O Mother of Christ! mine own wife to slay me! Her hand—her hand—” and his head bent
