sworn on the hammer of Thor, and the never resting serpents of Odin. What will the king do with me? What name will they call me through his kingdom, they that love him so? Love him? Not more than I—his false wife who would have slain him. Not more!—not more! That mad vow had stolen my wit, and now the madness is gone, and I only know that I loved thee, Olaf, my King, and I would have slain thee. What may I do? How may I repent by years of bitter sorrow that awful blow at the king’s life? If I could pray—pray? Ah! to whom shall I pray. The old, strong war-gods are gone. Olaf says they are devils, and the pale Christ that they worship, the Man too weak to strike blow for blow—I know Him not. They say He is merciful, but the old gods would have me suffer and be scorned forever. Olaf! my King! my King! If he would but say one little word of kindness I could die in peace. Die!—die!—that is all that remains for Gudrun the false, Gudrun the despised. How can I meet the scorn of Olaf, the wrath of my mother, the contempt of Norway? Ah! little dagger, thy blade is keen and true, and my aim will be more faithful now, since there are no kind, loving eyes to turn its course. Come, keen blade, cut off the life I can no longer bear.”
The dagger flashed again in the light of the lamp and hearth, and fell with fatal, faithful aim against the heart that throbbed so wildly. A wavering of
