whom he knew, being of his own land, that her word of betrothal would be unbroken. “Poor, faithful child,” the old priest said to himself; “she is doomed for her life to dwell in this stern land. Poor, gentle little maid! We must cast about her all the tender protection, all the strengthening force, and all the uplifting grace of Holy Mother Church to smooth her difficult, sorrowful path.”
A few days later Earl Fiachtna died. He was buried with the solemn pomp befitting his Christian nobility. King Olaf stood regretfully at the obsequies, his golden helmet in his hand, and his handsome blond head bowed, as the last rites were performed over the good old earl.
One day, a few weeks after her father’s death, Maidoch sat weaving beside the Lady Aastrid. In the distance without, the sound of the hammer and saw came distinctly.
“Does King Olaf go to sea again?” asked the girl; “else why are the builders in the shipyard so busy?” The building and the launching of the king’s ships held a strong fascination for the girl, and not one ever went over the waves that she did not watch it until out of sight.
“The king is not going to sea,” answered Aastrid, “but he is fitting out a ship to go to Ireland.”
Maidoch laid down her work. Her cheeks paled and her blue eyes grew wide. “To Ireland?” she
