“Ah! my friend, thou must trust me better.” Olaf spoke eagerly, for the longing for Norway, hidden so deep in his own heart, made him sensitive to even a jest about his probable return. “If I could take thee, my Eogan, to my own North kingdom, as a king’s most honored guest, and if my Gyda—the same blooming princess we saw on that first day we met—if she could, from her own throne give thee the hundred thousand welcomes that thy land has given me.”
As Olaf ceased speaking, a rapidly moving figure passed.
“Ah, Thorgills! Why so fast? Thou dost look as if all the winds of Norway were driving thee. What is it? Thou hast tidings, I see. Speak!”
The bard looked at Eogan, and Olaf added impatiently: “No need for caution when friends are as true as Eogan of the Red Shield. Pardon him, Sir Chief,”—Olaf gave his winning smile,—“Thorgills is so faithful that he thinks none but ourselves should hear the tidings of our own land. Speak, Thorgills!”
“There stands a ship in the Liffey, my King, from Norway, and the name of the ship is the ‘Aastrid.’”
“What!” cried Olaf, “my mother’s name? It is a good omen.”
“The master of the ‘Aastrid,’ one Thore Klakka, was seeking the ‘Alruna.’”
“Go on! Go on!”
