he could see my soul, and could read there my compact with Jarl Haakon.”
Coming towards the ship, tall, athletic, kingly, handsome; strode Olaf, followed by Thorgills. As they came within hailing distance, Thore sprang to the centre of the ship. He clapped his hands loudly. The crew crowded around him.
“What see ye, Norsemen? Whocomes to claim his own?” He pointed to the majestic figure approaching. Truly he was a king! The linked steel and gold of his coat of mail shook out streams of light as he moved. His long blue cloak, richly embroidered in gold, fluttered in the strong wind. His golden, double-winged helmet shone radiantly, as did the glittering chain around his neck, from which hung a jewelled crucifix.
The crew stood in wonder, in awe even, at the sight of the mighty viking. They had surmised who he was, for the fame of the great son of Harold Fairhaired had been kept alive in Norway, with the tales of his prowess, his skill in arms, his beauty and his undaunted courage.
A great shout went up. “Who comes to us? Whose light will rise over Norraway? The North Star! The North Star! It is rising! A wassail to King Olaf!”
In the midst of the tumult Olaf sprang upon the deck. Thore Klakka grasped both his hands.
