Ulf, the rough, shaggy Danish commander, who answered well the appellation of “Wolf” which his name implied.
“I would that thou dost release to me yon captives for a fair ransom, or if not I will give thee a fair fight for them.”
“Who art thou?” asked Ulf, in great astonishment, the warlike beauty of Olaf, his rich attire, and his splendidly appointed ship filling the Dane with wonder.
“I am Olaf of Norway. I am coming from Ireland to my own land.”
“Olaf of Norway?” cried the Dane in terror. “Art thou Olaf the White, who ruled more than a hundred years ago in Ireland, or art thou that Olaf that scalds called the North Star and that they sing of at twilight, and that they say is Odin himself come again?”
Olaf did not answer at once. He saw the impression he had made upon the Dane and he resolved to increase the wonder he had caused.
“Shall I show thee, Ulf,” at last he said, “what Olaf I am? Hast ever seen a viking could walk the water?”
As the king spoke, the men at the lockers held the oars horizontally out of the water. Olaf sprang out upon the first oar that was poised above the water, and ran out to the end, then back to the wooden shield, over the locker, and out again upon the next
