the Christ, and if thou wilt stay with me it will not be so dark.”
With a strong effort Father Tuathal shook off the horror and the repulsion and recalled his shrinking soul to a sense of his obligations. “I am an unworthy priest,” he humbly thought, “and I must not shrink from this poor soul striving to cast off its burden of sin in this dark hour. But, O my beloved! it is harder than death to touch the hand that slew thee, to bless the life that swept thee from my sight. Forgive me, my merciful Saviour, and help me to remember in this hour that I am a priest of the Christ who prayed with dying breath for them that slew Him. Keep in my shrinking soul, O Christ! the memory of Thy last hour.”
Father Tuathal came up to the couch. He took Thore’s hand in his own, and knelt down beside him. His voice was low and clear and filled with a gentle comforting that soothed the fear of the dying man. “Thou hast asked for the light of Christ, my son. It will be given to thee in this darkness.”
Both of Thore’s hands closed over Father Tuathal’s. The sick man leaned over on his couch and said anxiously:
“I must tell thee before I die, and thou canst tell the people if so thou wilt. I slew him—thy friend—the Christian priest King Olaf loved. I hated the priests. I did think the Christians had brought me bad luck. He caught me one night
