“O my King!” whispered the scald, with a catching sob in his voice, “there shines thy North Star, and now thou goest to claim thy kingdom, the deathless kingdom of the Christ thou didst serve so lovingly. Thou goest to the crown none shall ever snatch from thee.”
The sound of a voice raised in eager tones startled Thorgills and he turned back into the cavern. The dying pilgrim had raised himself upon one arm, while the other was waving swiftly to and fro. Eogan O’Niall had come to the couch again.
“Einar! Einar!” called the pilgrim, “what didst thou say did break in the crashing of thy bow? Only thy bow was broken; and thou didst say that Norway broke from my hands. Einar! Einar! say it again! What was it broke? ‘Norway from thy hands, my King!’ Nay! nay! Einar! There was another break, for the heart of Olaf Tryggevesson was broken in the crashing of thy bow. Einar! Einar! There was yet another break, for my poor Queen Thyra, she that wept away all my scant patience, her heart too was broken in the bending of thy bow. What was it broke, Einar? ‘Norway from thy hands, my King!’”
The hermit’s voice died down. His arm ceased to wave, and Thorgills laid him gently back on his couch. He was whispering softly: “Nay! nay! Gudrun! Lift not thy dagger! It were a poor thing to still the heart that beat so true to love of thee.”
He grew very silent for a space. Then, as his lips
