“thou art too ready to doubt. It is because of thy great love for me.”
Thorgills smiled back into Olaf’s happy face. “It doth puzzle me, my King, why the friend of Jarl Haakon should come to thee with report of thy welcome to Norway. Of a surety, he must know that the Norsemen will not hold Jarl Haakon in thy place, thou the son of kings, and Haakon but a poor jarl of the Trondelag. And if Jarl Haakon comes down, where will his vassals be? But I pray I am needlessly doubting. We will meet this captain. He hath four ships; and plans to take thee on his own back to Norway. But, my King, we will rest on our ‘Alruna,’ which is swifter than any ship that Thore hath, and so can outrun his treachery.”
“Nay! nay! Thorgills. Think not such dark thoughts on this hour that seems so bright to me.”
Thore Klakka was leaning over the side of his ship, looking curiously at the old city of Dublin. He marked how many monasteries rose up in their solemn, gray strength, and how many crosses stood like sentinels of Patrick’s faith. The oarsmen were idle and the crew was resting. Thore glanced up the street that led to the river. His bronze face took on a dark, red hue.
“It is he—the son of Trygge Olafsson,” he muttered. “He has his scald with him. A plague on that twanger of harp-strings. He looks at me as if
