bay. Slowly she rose. There lay the dagger. It all came back to her, the erring blow at Olaf’s life—his fierce grasp on her arm—the flashing dagger flung to the ground. Where had he gone? To bring the guards and lead her to the ax? What else remained for her, who aimed at the king’s life? She groped towards the dagger, took it in her hand and felt its keen edge.
“Thou wouldst not have failed. It was my own weak, cowardly hand. Thou, keen knife, wouldst have kept the vow, but my own arm forswore me. Why looked he so loving-kind? I would have hated him, and he made me love him—yes,” whispering softly, “made me love—love him.” Then she caught sight of Olaf’s dark cloak with its lining of white fur. She crept towards the king’s chair, and kneeling down, fondled the soft, snowy fur, and sobbed over it, now laying her cheek against the sleek surface, now patting it, as if it were something human to understand her anguish and remorse.
“Olaf! my King! I could have loved thee. I could have died for thee, but for that cruel vow! And now thou canst only hate me. Forever thou wilt despise me. False! false as Gudrun! they will say of me, and no maid nor wife in all Norway but will pray their Christ and Mary, His Mother, to be saved from treachery to their lord, such as mine hath been. False to thee, my King? when the whole heart of me was at thy feet, save that I was forsworn, for-
