eyes looked gratefully into the scald’s face. “What name shall I call thee, kind friend?”
“I am Thorgills, the bard of King Olaf. And how art thou known in thy own land?”
“I am Fiachtna, an earl of Leinster, and this is Maidoch, my daughter.”
The old man looked earnestly at the harper. “I have seen thee in Dublin. My home was near the city. Ulf and his Danes landed on the coast and they burned and pillaged my castle. Those whom they did not kill they made captives. My beautiful home was in ruins, and they burned the holy abbey where I studied in my youth with the monks of St. Senanus. They bound us, the little maid and me, and brought us to the ship. It is a sad, sad plight, but my heart grows full of hope when I look upon yon noble Christian king.”
As her father spoke, Maidoch timidly lifted her eyes and glanced at King Olaf. Thorgills drew his breath quickly. One swift look he gave the maiden. Then he turned aside his head. “How beautiful she is!” he thought. “I have loved my king full well, but now even more, since he has snatched this snow-white lamb from the fangs of the Danish wolves.”
Thorgills began to speak to Fiachtna, and every little space he would glance at Maidoch.
“King Olaf dwelt a space in your Irish land, and I was at his side. Now we go back to our own land, and the king to his throne.”
