Olaf’s heart beat high as he glanced around the ship. No hint of Thore’s treachery disturbed him and his hopes were too lofty to be shattered by any suggestions of Thorgills. For the scald had the artist’s keen perception of men, and he liked not the overweening confidence which Thore had inspired in Olaf.
Finding the king seemingly deaf to his suspicions, the scald had confided in Bishop Sigurd.
“Thou dost think, Thorgills,” the bishop said, “that we are in a perilous venture, and that Thore means not fairly to King Olaf, and tells him not truth when he promises him the allegiance of all Norway?”
“Look thou, my lord Bishop. Thore has stood ever close to Jarl Haakon. Is it to be thought that this overlord will seek out our Olaf to give him his own place? And mark thee, Jarl Haakon is not of the royal line.”
“It is a truth, Thorgills. Our Olaf’s father, Trygge Olafsson, was the grandson of Harold Fairhaired, whom all the Norsemen love. He is, too, of the race of Haakon the Good, who strove to bring the faith of Christ to our Norraway. But Jarl Haakon is but the son of Sigurd of Hlade, a jarl that was never an overlord. I know not what it means. Sometimes our good fortune is wrought by our very enemies. Now Thorgills, I have a strong confidence in the future of Olaf. He is so valiant, so true to the Christ, and his people love him so greatly.”
