“He sent some of the crew ashore. One of them knew me for thy scald, and told me the captain had messages for thee from the Thane Sigvalde, thy kinsman in Norway.”
“A message for me from Norway? It is the word of my welcome to my own land.”
“The sailor would give me no tidings save that the captain desired to see thee, for he had sworn to the thane, that no other than thyself should be the first to hear his words. He would know when he can meet thee.”
“Now! now!” cried Olaf, “this very hour!” He took a step forward, then turned back to Eogan. “Come with me, truest and best of friends. Thou hast been so true in these hours of waiting that I crave to have thee in my hour of triumph, and I feel that it is at hand. Hasten with me, my friend, and share with me these tidings.”
But Eogan drew back. “If it is indeed the message of thy return, thy faithful Norsemen will not welcome a stranger among the first to hear their tidings.”
“Nay, not a stranger. They have but to know how true a friend thou hast been, to give thee a Norseman’s welcome. Moreover, my Eogan, we of the South North kingdom claim close kindred with the Celts, seeing that many of the Cymrics of the Chersonese passed over the short Skager Rack, from Jutland to Norway. Right in my own city of Nidaros, where I hope to sit upon my father’s throne,
