Olaf sank down into his chair, as the dreadful tidings were broken to him. He covered his face with his hands. The wails of the women broke out afresh at the sight of the king’s sorrow. He raised his head, and looked at them again. “Said ye she was dead? Slain by her own hand? O Christ of the Cross, have pity.” Again he walked towards the door.
“Not in there, my King!” Thorgills besought him. “We were that frozen with horror we thought not to hide the sight from thee, and it were a terrible one to thy eyes.”
Olaf paused, too stunned to be otherwise than passive. Suddenly he turned to the wondering group. “She was mad, my beautiful bride. Aye, some cruel fate had robbed my winsome lady of her wit. Last night she aimed the dagger at my own heart, and I left her alone, fearing to arouse a tumult in the house; and then—can ye not see?—her madness turned against herself. She was mad. So say ye, when the gossip shall ask wherefore the queen-bride should be slain by her own hand upon her wedding night. Say that I—her lord who did love her most—did discover that she was mad.”
Olaf waved the gaping crowd away. All retreated except Thorgills, who came closer to the king. Olaf leaned heavily on the scald’s arm. “See thou that the Lady Ingrid come to me at once. Let the burial of the Lady Gudrun be only such as a Christian kingdom can give to one who hath stolen her own life.”
