Thorgills came in, and when the visitors had left, Olaf answered the bard’s questioning look. “Yon lady is Queen Thyra of Denmark, who flies to me for help and protection.”
Thorgills looked troubled as he repeated: “Queen Thyra of Denmark comes to thee, my King? I like not the news. Thou hast angered Queen Sigrid, and thou wilt further anger Sweyn if thou dost aid his sister in her rebellious flight.”
Olaf laughed softly. “My faithful Thorgills, thou art ever afraid some woman will ensnare me into danger. See now! This is not the young witch Gudrun, nor yet the fiery old witch Sigrid. This is a poor persecuted and injured woman who only asks shelter in my kingdom.”
“My King,” said the scald, “the thing a woman asks for and the thing she will get for the asking are often as far apart as the little violet on the roadside and the highest hung star in the heavens.”
“Hath thy young Irish wife been asking thee for the stars?”
“My King, she asks for naught. She is gentle and silent and dutiful, but there is that within her heart is all unsatisfied. See now, my King. I thought to take this white blossom on my heart, but I have only touched the outer petals. The soul of the flower, the depths of its fragrant core are closed to me.”
“Nay! nay! Thorgills,”—Olaf’s voice was tender as a woman’s to the scald,—“thy wife is so young
