thou wouldst not forego the shadow of the song that sounds within thy heart.”
“True! true!” Olaf said gently. “And thou wouldst take a wife? Of what father?”
“She is the daughter of the Irish jarl whom thou didst ransom at sea from the Danes.”
“Aye! I remember the little blue-eyed maid, who clung so sturdily to the white-haired man. Poor little maid! As if any of that wild crew could not have crushed out her life as it were an egg-shell. But she stood by the old jarl—her blue eyes flashing—it made me wander back to my Gyda—blue as the violets under the ferns on the rocks of Viken, where I went as a boy. Where dwell the jarl and his little maid?”
“In the home of the Lady Aastrid. The jarl is ill unto death, and hath betrothed the little maid to me. The Lady Aastrid gave them full welcome, for the maid Maidoch can weave and spin, and hath full learning. Her hands can fashion laces that are finer than the spider weaves. Fiachtna was instructing the youth of the Lady Aastrid’s household, before this mortal illness seized him.”
“Tell me further of the maid.” Olaf smiled indulgently at the bard. Thorgills bent over his harp.
“Nay! nay! my scald!” laughed the king. “I know thou hast not notes enough on thy strings nor words enough on thy tongue to tell the charm of the
