“It may be thou art right, my lord.” Thorgills was looking gloomily at Olaf who was talking eagerly to Thore Klakka. “I love my king, as I have never loved man nor woman.”
The scald was speaking almost to himself. “If yon Thore means him evil, and if he bring him aught of harm, I will tear out the strings of my harp and take up the sword. I will sing no more sagas until I play the notes in the blood of Thore Klakka.”
“Softly! softly! my son,” the gentle bishop answered. “There is One over all of us, over thee, and over Thore, and watching over our Olaf.” He touched the crucifix upon his breast. “If our Olaf’s hour has come, not the treachery of Thore, if such he means, can put it off. God will find a way. I have seen many things among the Saxons, my son. Many lessons of the vanity of all human greatness, have I learned. I have learned too that every Christian must meet his season of persecution, even as the Master met His. When I was a boy, sitting at the feet of my beloved teacher, Dunstan, the holy Abbot of Glastonbury, I saw him driven from his place at the side of the wayward young King Edwy, whom he would fain guide in the path of royal virtue, by the power of the wicked woman Ethelvine, who ruled the king’s life. And when that Abbot Dunstan chided Edwy, he suffered for his zeal almost with his life, as did John the Baptist. And when God was weary of their crimes, he raised up the Mercians to revolt and Ethelvine
