form of the stern old sorceress from the body of her daughter. Her white hair was crimsoned, and her palsied hands were literally stained with the blood she had morally shed. The king’s servants carried her, beside her daughter’s corpse, to her own home, and the retainers of her household nursed her back to life, and prepared for the funeral of the Lady Gudrun.
A few days after, Olaf stood before his palace window. No sign of mourning he wore, nor was any permitted in the court. The traces of his great disappointment, however, were visible in the king’s face, and were a clearer sign of mourning than any sombre garment could have been. As the king gazed without, his eyes fell upon a small group approaching. It was a funeral procession. No cross led before. No priest walked behind the corpse. One solitary old woman followed the bier. The rest of the group consisted of thralls. Olaf gazed long, and as the procession neared the palace, he called to the guard. Pointing to the procession he asked: “Unas, whose burial is that?” And the man, thrilled by the events of the past few days, softly answered, “It is the burial of the Lady Gudrun, my King.”
Olaf shuddered. Again he felt the keen steel at his throat. Again he saw the corpse of his bride.
The lowly, unhallowed cortège passed.
“Christ have pity on all sinners!” muttered the king.
