the slight form, the hand that held the dagger was dropped, and the crimson-clad figure lay prone upon the white rug. Each action was fantastically reflected on the shield-covered walls, in the shadows of the firelight. The paling cheek rested against the king’s mantle as the fluttering hands tried to clasp its sleek, furry folds. Where the dagger had parted her bodice, a crimson stream was flowing down, redder than the bright robe it trickled over. The fire leaped up and lit with an awful radiance the ghastly scene. The mellow lamplight glistened down upon the red stream carrying out Gudrun’s life in its steady, unchecked flow.
Towards dawn, after a sleepless night of groans wrung from him by his indignant anguish, Olaf called to the guards of his chamber. “Bid the women of the household attend to the comfort of my—the Lady Gudrun. When the day breaks despatch a messenger for the Lady Ingrid. Say to her I would see her at once.”
The guard stared stupidly. Not like a bridegroom looked the haggard king, and surely these were strange, harsh orders after one’s wedding day.
“Why standest thou there? Didst hear? Bid the women of the household attend the Lady Gudrun, and after daylight—”
“Aye—aye—my King.” The guard recovered from his astonishment. “It shall be done even as thou commandest.”
