“Hail to the son of Trygge Olafsson! Hail to our shining North Star!”
Again the shout went up. “A wassail to King Olaf!”
The bronze drinking-cups were brought out and filled: and drained with lusty cheers. As Olaf took his horn into his hand, the sight of the familiar Norse cup of festivity caused his full heart to almost overflow. His hands trembled, his lips quivered, and a choking lump rose in his throat. Home! Norraway! Back to his own land as king! A mist of tears rose to his eyes. But he brushed them quickly aside, as he did all the softer emotions of the moment. Again he was a Norseman; and more, he was king of the Norsemen. He was the strong, subduing viking, and no sentiment must conquer him. He lifted the bronze horn and drained the ale to the last drop, though it burned his choking throat.
“Norraway! Norraway!” he shouted. “A wassail to our own land! To the sea and the sky! To the hills and the vales! To the fens and the fiords of Norraway!”
“Norraway! Norraway!” repeated the shouts of the crew, as they drained the horns. “A wassail to our own land! A wassail to our king! A wassail to King Olaf! The true overlord of Norway!”
As they feasted and rejoiced and paid homage to King Olaf, Eogan O’Niall came on board the “Aastrid.” Olaf rose up gladly when he saw the young Celtic
