“Nay! nay!” protested the unhappy woman, “I weep not for thy song, but for memory of all the good warriors who are dead. In their day I would not be forced to sit in poverty while the revenues of my rich estates in Wendland and in Denmark are stolen from me. But now there is no one brave enough to help me.”
Olaf looked gloomily at the queen, and Thorgills strung his harp anew. At last the king said:
“My queen, thou hast a goodly portion of the revenues of my kingdom. Then why shouldst thou repine?”
Thyra burst into fresh weeping. “The revenues of thy kingdom?” she sobbed. “Thou dost only give me charity, because I am so poor and needy. O for a man brave enough to venture into Wendland!” and she wept again.
“Hold! my lady,” King Olaf said kindly. “That thou shalt not say again. Surely if thou dost desire one to go and restore thy estates in Wendland, it must be thy husband.”
“My King!” interposed Thorgills, to whom the mention of such an expedition conjured up the perils of Sweyn’s open hostility and Sigrid’s deep hatred and desire of revenge.
“I know, Thorgills,” the king interrupted, “thou wouldst counsel prudence, but I can claim no fellowship with fear—call it prudence if thou wilt.”
Thyra rose to leave the room. “Now thou must
