standing in the road. “Where hast thou been so long?” the earl asked.
“Not far from thee, my Jarl. I have been out in the fiord, counting the ships. I think it is time for my journey to the Irish coast. Thou hast been so full of thy victories, and of worship of the gods, thou hast forgotten thy promise to fit me out ships to go seeking Olaf Tryggevesson. Thou hast scarcely heeded me of late. What didst thou place upon the altar to-day? Did any jarl in the Trondelag give thee a helpless, blue-eyed lad to offer up to the gods, a fair young stripling to Thor, that thou and I may ensnare Olaf into Norway? It is a perilous venture, and may need a rich sacrifice.”
Earl Haakon grew deadly pale. He clutched the broad, bronze buckle that fastened his long, blue cloak, as if he were stifling the terrible pain that rose in his heart at the memory of Erling’s fate. In a muffled tone he answered the steward: “Thou shalt have full gold, Thore, to fit out thy ships, and the gods—they will not be forgotten.”
Thore Klakka laughed. “Thy baptism to Christ the White, in thy youth, my Jarl, did not wash off thy heathen heart. Thy father, Sigurd, was a better Christian than thou art, even if old King Haakon the Good did hold thee in his arms at thy baptism and gave thee his own name. Thou hast, my Jarl, the name of the Christian overlord of Norway, who dwelt and worshipped with the Saxons in England,
