moved again, Thorgills stooped down to catch the faint words. The hermit’s right hand was feebly grasping at something. “I accept thy challenge, Thor! I am the champion of the Christ!”
A gray shadow drifted over the wasted face. The tall, gaunt form grew rigid as stone.
The North Star of Norway had set. The great viking had made his last voyage. The ship of life sank out of sight, and the dauntless Christian sea-king had come into an everlasting kingdom and crown.
Thorgills fled from the silent couch and stood at the door, in that agony of the spirit that sweeps over human hope when death has rent in twain the bonded hearts that life cannot divide.
Across the silence and the darkness of the desert Thorgills sent out his cry of sorrow, so strong, so startling, it seemed as if a giant heart was breaking in the tone: “My King! My King! My King!”
