The harper started to go. “Stay yet! Bid them not disturb the body of the Lady Gudrun till her mother comes.”
The warm light of the new day was piercing through the gloom and horror within the palace, when Ingrid hurried to answer the king’s hasty summons. A dread of some calamity rested upon her as she followed the reticent messenger, who would give her no word save that the king desired her presence at once. Her nameless fear did not diminish when she stood before Olaf. He did not see her at first, and the sight of the king’s set, haggard face, struck a chill to the dark old sorceress.
“The Lady Ingrid, my King!” said the messenger, and dropping the curtain went out of the room.
Olaf turned with such a fierce start, as it were a bloodhound about to spring upon his victim. Ingrid thought that the last Norse giant must have come back from banishment, and that this must be the great Jotun himself, when she saw how the nerves and sinews of the mighty sea-king quivered with power and passion, as he spoke in bitter anger. Stolid and fearless as she was, Ingrid shrank back.
“Aye! my Lady Ingrid!” shouted the king, “it were well to keep a space between us. By the Sign of the White Christ, I could crush thee for the treacherous witch thou art.” The words came in quick gasps of wrath. “Go in there to yon chamber, and when thou seest thy maiden, thy Gudrun of thy own black
