before the Holy Sepulchre. He heard from a brother traveller, the tale of a tall, handsome pilgrim, who had passed through the Holy City, and after fulfilling his vow of prayer at the Saviour’s Tomb, had disappeared into the desert. Here he was going to live as a hermit, an anchorite like St. Paul of Thebes, the father of hermits.
Thorgills sat down in the dusty street of Jerusalem. Lost in the desert! How should he ever find his king? He bent his head hopelessly, and it seemed as if his heart-strings must burst asunder with the terribly hopeless thought of his search.
As the scald sat in moody reverie, a pilgrim stood before him. Something in the face brought back to Thorgills his Irish journey. He sprang up in joyful surprise. “I know thee, who thou art.”
The pilgrim smiled, and grasped Thorgills’ hand, saying as he did so, “And thou art the scald of King Olaf of Norway. I did hear that he was defeated in the fight, and that he was drowned after the battle, and that his kingdom had been given to others.”
Thorgills said cordially, “Now, surely do I know thee! Thou art the Irish knight, Sir Eogan O’Niall, whom my king did love so strongly. Art thou, too, bound on a pilgrimage?”
“Aye! I vowed to visit the Holy Land if my son should be spared when he lay ill unto death. The boy did live; and I have made my vow at the Tomb of Christ, and now I am returning to my home.”
