hilt, and held it aloft. The sunlight flashed dazzlingly upon the keen steel blade. The tall viking bent his head reverently. “One far greater than Odin will guide me in the battle. Not the hammer of Thor, but the sign of the Crucified shall be my sign of victory.”
Bishop Sigurd laid his hand upon the bended head. “As another Constantine, my son, thou must conquer by the Sign of the Cross.”
The Danes were still watching in wonder the tall, superbly formed warrior in the glittering coat of mail, and wearing upon his long, red, blond hair the burnished golden helmet. Olaf was about to sheathe his sword. Then he raised it again. Placing it first in his right hand, and then in his left, he fenced with equal skill with either hand. As the Danes were still wondering, he placed the sword in its scabbard, first reverently kissing the crossed hilt.
“My bow, Thore!” he said, and the long, stout bow, with a full quiver of arrows was placed beside him.
“Shall I strike the eye of yon raven on thy sail?” he inquired of Ulf. The pictured bird was high up on the fluttering sail.
“Thou canst not do it,” answered the Dane incredulously. For reply Olaf held the bow in his left hand, and drew the string with his right. The arrow sped in a straight line to the right eye of the raven.
“Well done! well done!” shouted the pirates. “Thou art not only Odin and Njord, but for thy courage thou mightest be Tyr.”
