The North Star

Front matter

THE NORTH STAR

The North Star

A Tale of Norway in the Tenth Century

Chapter 1

THE NORTH STAR

I WHAT SHALL OLAF FIND?

“And thou sayest, of a surety, Thore Klakka, this boy still lives?”

“Earl Haakon, it is not more certain that the jarls of the Orkneys must meet thy tithe, than that this boy, this Olaf, of the true Yingling race and likewise of the true race of Harold Fairhaired, still lives.”

“Harold Fairhaired–aye–I remember.”

“And it were well for thee, Jarl Haakon, to remember, for the Norsemen do not forget. They say that this Olaf, the beautiful, brave, kingly lad, showed even in his beggar’s dress, when he fled from thee and from Gunhild, of what royal blood he was. Boy–said I? It is nigh unto twenty-five years since Gudrod and Harold Grayfell murdered his father, Trygge Olafsson; and his mother, Aastrid, fled from her enemies to the Island of Rand’s Fiord, where her boy was born. Baby and lad and man, he seemed saved for some great place!”

Earl Haakon looked around uneasily. Thore Klakka, his steward, came closer.

“My Jarl, if thou wouldst sit securely on the throne of Harold Fairhaired, thou must not let Olaf cast his shadow on the shore of Norway.”

“But where is Olaf?” Earl Haakon asked anxiously.

“Upon the Irish coast he tarries. He was cruising bravely on the English coast, and the poor Saxon, Ethelred, shook on his throne. Sweyn, of Denmark, and Olaf frightened the Saxons out of ten thousand pounds, that the miserable king paid for peace. Olaf gave freely to his men. He kept his own ship, the ‘Alruna,’ with Thorgills, his scald, and a few of his crew; and the rest he turned free. Then Olaf, who loves the new faith, even as thou, Jarl Haakon, dost hate the Christ, was confirmed with all pomp in King Ethelred’s chapel, before the whole Saxon court. Then he sailed for Dublin. Think thou, Jarl Haakon! Our Norsemen are wild over the deeds of Olaf, and thou art not even of the royal line.”

Earl Haakon’s face grew dark. “Thore Klakka, thou art my friend. Fair, fierce fights have welded us together. There is full gold in my coffers to fit out a ship that might take thee and a few trusty men to the Irish coast. Thou couldst persuade Olaf to come back to Norway. Once upon this land, this presumptuous boy, this viking who dares dispute with me to be the overlord of Norway, shall find–what shall he find?”

Thore Klakka narrowed his eyes until they were almost closed. “My Jarl Haakon, he shall find what his father found, when Harold Grayfell led him on a viking cruise. He shall find a cold dagger for his dinner, and the bottom of the Nidaros Fiord for his bed.”

Chapter 2

II THE JOMSVIKINGS

Jomsborg, which sits picturesquely on the Island, near the mouth of the rushing Oder, was, at the close of the tenth century, the stronghold of the Jomsvikings. If the ordinary Norse vikings were bold and adventurous, the piratical Jomsvikings were even greater adventurers. Here on their Island, they gathered; bound by stern oaths to their chief, Earl Sigvalde, and obeying, without questioning, their own stern laws. They loved danger and laughed at death. To women, they gave only a passing, contemptuous thought; and none of the gentler sex were ever allowed to enter the sacred precincts of Jomsborg. Such of the Jomsvikings as claimed any feminine association, wives or mothers or sisters, secluded them on the mainland; and none ever dared allow the profanation of a female foot upon their stronghold. The chief of the Jomsvikings, Earl Sigvalde, had at Nidaros a gentle, devoted wife, and a peaceful, well-ordered home, very different from the tumultuous surroundings of his wild realm on the banks of the Oder. The Lady Aastrid, the wife of Earl Sigvalde, was of the same name and was a kinswoman of the mother of the wandering King Olaf. After the ascendency of Earl Haakon as overlord of Norway, Queen Aastrid had married a wealthy chief, named Lodin, and had lived quietly in the province of Viken. Aastrid, however, never ceased to work and hope for her son’s return, and in this she was greatly helped by Earl Sigvalde’s wife, who had kept alive the loyalty of the Norsemen to her kinsman. She was pledged, heart and soul, to the restoration of Olaf. In this she was not entirely controlled by family affection; for Aastrid was an earnest convert to the Christian faith; and she knew that from Olaf she could hope for every aid in spreading the religion of Christ. The Lady Aastrid was a sincere, noble woman, and her influence was all that was good in the life of the wild jarl, Sigvalde.

Earl Haakon, the overlord of Norway, at the close of the tenth century, was a man of great strength of character and yet of great weaknesses. His dread of Olaf’s return to Norway made him anxious to devise some means for his destruction; for Olaf was the legitimate king; and Earl Haakon knew that the Norsemen only waited a chance to proclaim the son of Trygge Olafsson. Earl Haakon had stubbornly refused to accept the Christian religion and clung to the old Asa faith. He was regarded with a certain awe by the Pagan contingency of Norway, because his kingship carried with it the dignity of priest of Odin and Thor, director of their sacrifices and guardian of their temples. With the advance of Chris , came the abolishing of the pagan priesthood, and a consequent lowering of the kingly position.

So at this period Earl Haakon represented the departing pagan power, and Olaf the prevailing Christian influence; that marvellous combat between Christ and Thor, between the gospels of fierce hate and gentle peace, that ended in the triumph of the Cross—so beautifully sung in the old Norse sagas, under the suggestive title of “The Twilight of the Gods.”

And it was at this time, while brave Olaf, the true king, wandered afar, and fierce, false Haakon ruled in his place, that Harold of Denmark incited the Jomsvikings to rebel against the wicked jarl.

Chapter 3

III “BY THE BEARD OF BRAGE”

The hall of the Jomsvikings was wild with riotous mirth, although it was a funeral feast for the father of Earl Sigvalde. With ale and wassail and boar’s-head, they had gathered together to comfort the earl for the death of his parent, whose funeral cortège had been, that evening at twilight, placed on the burning ship and set adrift far down the Oder. Jarl Sigvalde, the chief, sat at the head of the table, while the men drank and ate heartily. He took his long bronze drinking-horn, which hung around his neck by a chain, and filled it full of mead.

“A toast! A toast to Brage!” the earl cried, rising from his seat. The vikings grew silent in a second. Something warlike was to follow. Some stirring adventure promised, when the toast to Brage was called; for he was the deity to whom the vows of war and combat were pledged. Earl Sigvalde’s voice thundered on the silence: “I swear, by the Beard of Brage, that the snows of three winters shall not see Jarl Haakon the overlord of Norway.”

A great cheer shook the oaken ceiling. “A wassail to Jarl Sigvalde!”

“Silence!” shouted the earl. The many potations of ale, mead, and the spicy Welsh bragget were setting his blood aflame. “Live not Jarl Haakon and I three years longer in Norway! Here by the Beard of Brage, I swear that if I die for it, Jarl Haakon shall fly from these shores. I drink the pledge to Brage!” He drained the deep horn to the last drop. Then he cried out even louder, “I swear it again, by the Spear of Odin and the Hammer of Thor, Jarl Haakon goes!” He stood still and waited. Then a hundred blond giants rose and swore after him, by the Beard of Brage, the Spear of Odin, and the Hammer of Thor, that Jarl Haakon should go.

A tall, straight figure rose before the earl.

“What is it, Vagn? Speak! Thy sword is ever first in combat and thy voice should be first in council.”

The gigantic follower of Sigvalde lifted his bronze drinking-horn to his lips. “When the day of combat comes, my Jarl, and our Jomsvikings turn out the tide of Jarl Haakon’s power, there is one for my sword to meet. By the Beard of Brage, I swear for the life of Thorkell Leira, my truest enemy.”

Hundreds of drinking-horns were raised. “A wassail to our brave Vagn; and speed the head of Thorkell Leira to his ax.”

Jarl Sigvalde rose again. “And who shall be overlord of Norway?”

A deep silence met the question. The Jarl filled the long drinking-horn and lifted it to his lips. “There wanders one afar, beyond the seas, of the race of Harold Fairhaired.”

A thousand men started to their feet. A thousand swords clashed against a thousand shields; and as their drinking-horns were drained, a thousand voices shouted lustily: “A wassail to King Olaf!” And as they swore and drank and clashed, one from among them crept out into the darkness. He ran to the shore, and jumping into a small boat rowed swiftly in the night.

Next morning Gutorm stood before Earl Haakon, and told him of the fierce oaths of Earl Sigvalde and his followers.

It came to pass, however, that next morning, when day broke and the Jomsvikings considered their pledges in the clear, cool light, they would gladly have been forsworn; but the war-arrow had already started on its rounds and had been stuck in every man’s door; and all the north shires of Norway were roused by the summons that Earl Haakon would meet the Earl of the Jomsvikings in a mighty sea-fight.

Chapter 4

IV GYDA

Nine hundred years ago, in the closing decade of the tenth century, there was a great fair held in the city of Dublin. This gathering was one of more than usual interest, and held an attraction to the throngs assembled, like the concluding chapters of a romance. For it was reported, far and near, that on the fifth day of the fair, the Princess Gyda, the famous Irish beauty, would choose a husband from among the hundreds of suitors who sought her hand. Her brother, King Kavaran, had despatched couriers to all the provinces to invite the eligible young nobles to be present at the fair Gyda’s decision. Not one who could come had absented himself; and in the heart of each and every one was the hope that the choice of the princess might fall upon him. Even those who had never looked into her blue eyes had heard of her charms. The bards had been stringing their harps in her praise, in every castle, from sea to sea.

The Princess Gyda was a widow. Since her first smile after her grief for the late earl, her husband, there had arisen a great competition as to who should be his successor. A hundred acknowledged suitors she had; but on this day, the number was doubled and trebled by the acquisition of every hopeful young chieftain whose heart had been fired by the fame of King Kavaran’s sister.

All along the highways leading to the city could be seen groups of horsemen. Here a young chieftain would ride, with his father, escorted by the bard and the physician, two inseparable adjuncts to the dignity of every Celtic clan. After these followed the retainers. The bard’s office was very evident, as the sound of his harp was heard whenever the groups stopped to rest by the wayside; but did we not know that the physician was the constant attendant upon every enterprise of an Irish chieftain, we might suppose that his mission in this case would be to heal the wounds inflicted by the blue eyes of the princess.

On this beautiful May morning in the year A.D. 990, along the sloping roads that wind down from the hills of Wicklow to the plains of the Liffey, between the hawthorn hedges, came a particularly attractive group of travellers. A venerable chieftain sat at the head of the cavalcade. At his right hand rode his young son. They were Fergus and Eogan O’Niall, coming from their own province of Munster to be present at the fair. The white-haired man of seventy years sat his steed with almost the same grace as he did fifty years before, when he rode to meet the Danes in battle, or the Leinster chiefs when they encroached too closely upon his territory. The youth was in the full bloom of early manhood. He wore the collar of gold that proclaimed him an Irish knight, and his shield, painted in vivid red, gave him the name by which he was praised for his valor by the bards throughout the Island, “O’Niall of the Red Shield.” The seven colors in the costume of father and son declare them of the royal blood; and the last Munster king knew no stronger arm than that of his kinsman, Fergus O’Niall, even as the reigning king had no braver shield than the red sign of Eogan, the bravest of his “Knights of the Red Wreath.”

Lurgha, the harper, had been singing of the beauty of the Princess Gyda, and when the song ceased, Fergus O’Niall turned to the young man. “My son, dost thou still hope to win this princess in the contest to-morrow?”

“I know not, my father; but all that a knight may do for the fair Gyda, will I strive to do.”

“Didst thou not hear that the giant Alfwine, he that is called the ‘Man-slayer,’ hath declared that if Gyda’s choice fall upon any other than himself, the chosen one must do single combat with him? There are few men can withstand Alfwine.”

“I may not withstand him; but I would defend my right with my life, if the fair princess should choose me.”

“I would thy life went in a better cause, my son. None hold women in higher honor than the clan O’Niall; but their smiles are dangerous lights to young warriors. Dost thou not remember the tale that Lurgha hath sung to thee, of how thy forefather, Cealchan, the bravest young chieftain of his day, was entrapped and betrayed by the wiles of a Danish maiden? Dost thou not remember”—his temper rising at the recollection—“that this same maiden’s favor cost Cealchan such degradation as rarely an Irish knight hath been called upon to endure? When he ventured too near to win the Danish maiden, she betrayed him to her countrymen in Dublin. Ah! he was a brave youth, thy kinsman Cealchan, but his promise was blighted for a maiden’s smile!”

“Blighted, my father?” exclaimed the young man, with the reckless energy of five and twenty, and the fervor of a sentiment that last year’s gazing into Gyda’s blue eyes had awakened. “Was there ever a nobler fight than our Munster chieftains fought to rescue Cealchan from the ship of the Danes? The sight of him lashed to the mast before their eyes gave such strength to their arms that the Danes could not withstand them, even had they been led, as they say they are, by their war god, Odin. And did not a woman, our own Irish princess, through the wife of Sitric the Dane, did she not, my father, warn Cealchan and seek to rescue him?”

“True! true!” replied the older man, and was unwilling to argue further.

They were entering the city. Crossing the River Liffey, they slowly walked their horses up the street to the house of a Leinster chieftain, a former combatant in battle, but now the most cordial of hosts in giving the hospitality of his home to the Munster prince and his son.

Chapter 5

V “YON STRANGER WITH THE HOOD OF FUR”

It was the fifth day of the fair, the day upon which Gyda, the blue-eyed beauty of the Island, would select her husband. Such a marshalling of young warriors as that report had brought! It seemed like the eve of a great battle. Mingling with the traders in silks and linens were the princes of every noble house in the land. A space had been cleared in the widest part of the street, and here was placed the dais for King Kavaran. Upon this platform stood the Princess Gyda, looking over the array of knightly manhood brought together in her honor. The wise men of her brother’s court, the Oolahans, out of their great learning had discovered that it was better for the peace of the kingdom that she should wed; and thus let the young warriors turn all their thoughts to the service of their country.

Fergus O’Niall had reached the fair early that morning, and was standing with Eogan upon the edge of the throng that surrounded the platform. Early as they were, this was as near as they could approach. Lurgha, the harper, and Connaire, the physician of the O’Nialls, were with them, for only the immediate attendants of the chiefs were allowed near the plat . The rest of their retainers were scattered through the fair.

Eogan O’Niall was conscious of some one coming up beside him while he was watching the princess. Turning to his left he saw a man of most remarkable heroic beauty. The stranger, for such he seemed to be, was attended only by a young harper, whose instrument was of different fashion from that of the Irish bards. The new-comer was of about the age of Eogan, but he was of more stalwart build. While Eogan had the deep blue eyes and rich dark hair of the Celtic type, the stranger had the fair hair and grayer eyes of the Norsemen. Such he proved to be, when turning he saluted Eogan in Celtic with a strong Gothic inflection. The cloak over the stranger’s armor was of heavy, dark, almost black cloth, lined and edged with the fur of the red fox. Over his head, in lieu of helmet, he wore a hood of white beaver fur.

“Thou art of the North?” asked Logan, his greeting a little chilled by the thought of the stranger’s nationality.

“I am, Sir Chief,” the Norseman answered, looking at the red-wreathed shield and helmet that proclaimed Eogan’s knighthood, “but I am not a Dane,” he added, as if glad to throw off that suspicion. “I am from Norway, the great North kingdom.”

“From Norway!” cried Eogan. “Then let me salute thee, that thou art the enemy of our forefathers’ enemies, the Danes.”

“They tell me,” the Norseman said, “that this great assemblage of knights has been called together that a beautiful princess may choose her husband.”

“It is even so,” Eogan replied, a little nettled at what he considered the stranger’s amusement at Gyda’s whim, and to the young Chief O’Niall no lightest fancy of the princess was the subject of the least mirth.

The Norseman marked the frown on Eogan’s face, and drove it off with the next question. “Is she very beautiful, this princess?”

“The sky of midsummer midnight is not darker blue than her eyes. The robin’s breast on the Christmas snow is not brighter than the glow of her cheek. She is the most beautiful of women in a land of beauty.”

“Sir Chief, I might question that saying, since we think our Norse maids, with their clear blue eyes and their flaxen hair, fairer than the Irish maids, but on this day we must devote ourselves to praise of the Irish princess who has called us together. I myself have come to find a face that has followed my dreams since I landed on these shores from my viking ship.”

“Where didst thou see the face?”

“As I walked out from the city and towards the Hill of Tara, I did see descending the slope, a group of maidens. I stood still as they passed me; and one, a goddess, she seemed, with deep sea eyes and hair like the gloss of the dark beaver when he rises shining from the waves. Pink as the hawthorn blossom was her skin. She was tall and moved like, the old scalds tell us, Brunhilda or the Alruna maidens, when they went to meet a warrior returning from victory. I stood still to watch her, the while my heart danced with very joy at her beauty. I thought of my viking ship, and how we might go over the water together, of how her blue eyes would look down into the waves and make them bluer. It seemed as if she glanced at me, but mayhaps I only thought so; and I gazed upon her as long as I could see one gleam of her purple robe and her long mantle of purple and yellow.”

“Of purple and yellow?” sharply repeated Eogan, starting at the words.

“Even so. As purple as the hills of Norway at sunset, and its stripes as yellow as the wheat fields of the Trondelag at noon-day.”

“A princess, she was,” said Eogan, “for none but a king’s daughter may wear such a robe and such a mantle. She might have been even the very—”

A blast of trumpets drowned the words that finished the sentence. Eogan forgot, as he remembered the meaning of the sound, the sudden jealousy that had risen as he listened to the Norseman.

“There she stands, my son,” said Fergus O’Niall.

No need to tell Eogan. Every quick throb of his heart was warning enough. Gyda advanced to the front of the platform. Her brother stood beside her, and around them was a throng of bards, warriors, Oolahans, and physicians of the king’s household.

There was a murmur of admiration at the vision of beauty in whose honor they had assembled. The waves of praise passing on to Gyda’s hearing, brought a crimson flush to her face, like a delicate rose taking on a richer tint.

“By the Sign of the White Christ, it is she!” muttered the Norseman. The words were lost to Eogan, whose hearing and sight were concentrated upon the platform.

The bards, at a sign from King Kavaran, sang their greeting to the knights, and the monarch rose and gave them the hundred thousand welcomes of the Celts.

Then gravely he treated of the cause of the gathering. He spoke of how the wise men had told him that the rivalry among the young chieftains for his sister’s favor had turned their thoughts from warlike studies, and so to-day she would choose one from among them, and let the others be at peace to pursue their course of knightly tasks.

While her brother was speaking, Gyda had looked over the assemblage, with an anxious gaze, as if seeking an absent face. At last, her glance fell upon the spot where Eogan and the Norseman were standing. The anxiety faded. A smile of satisfaction rested upon her lips, and a new light came into her eyes. Eogan met the glance and a hope so intoxicating possessed him he could scarcely breathe.

King Kavaran had ceased speaking, and Gyda took a step forward. Her gaze still rested upon the same spot. Her smile was deeper. Instinctively the myriad eyes followed her glance, and finding Eogan, the common thought was that the young chief of the Clan O’Niall was about to be chosen. It seemed too daring for Eogan to admit to himself, but her glance and his own strong hope, brought a thousand palpitating fancies.

A rich voice was floating over the hundreds of heads.

“Out of mine own heart, and for the lord of my life, I will choose yon stranger, with the hood of fur, if so there be no maiden nor wife in the Northland who may claim him before me.”

A tumult of voices followed. “Yon stranger with the hood of fur!”

The Norseman had heard, and to hear and to answer were one. It was but a step for the tall form to reach the platform, and to stand beside the princess. The greatness of his joy banished even the confusion of the strange event.

“Who is he? Who is he?” demanded a thousand tones. The blond head was bent, and the golden-brown beard touched Gyda’s hand.

“My sister, what hast thou done? I thought when I gave thee so large a liberty, thou wouldst surely choose a husband of thy own race and station. Who is this stranger? Whom hast thou brought here?”

The Princess Gyda looked bravely in the king’s face. “I know not, my brother, his name nor his home. He is of the North, I believe; but of all here I was free to choose, and him have I chosen.”

A terrible cry now arose in the multitude, like the angry roar of the heavens before a storm.

“He is a spy of the Danes! Shame upon the Princess of Erne who has chosen the enemy of her country! Thou art no longer our king’s daughter, thou art none of Malachy’s blood that thou canst wed in the black race of Turgesius.”

The Norseman turned to the crowd. “I am no Dane! I come from the great North kingdom of Norway.” There seemed a greater height and strength to the man as he proclaimed his country.

Chapter 6

VI “WHO ART THOU?”

Stunned and speechless, Eogan O’Niall listened to Gyda’s decision. At last he turned to his father. “Heard I aright? The princess, she of Malachy’s royal line, King Kavaran’s sister, chooses to wed this nameless stranger, who may be a spy of the Danes, for aught we know otherwise?”

“Even so, my son! Think no more of her! But yon stranger hath a lordly look. Didst mark how he never flinched, when the crowd was threatening loudest? How he holds my lady’s hands as if this were but a gathering of merry maids to see his wedding, and not the throng of angry warriors who will not lightly let him take the princess.”

“But she hath chosen him, my father,” answered Eogan, too loyal to condemn Gyda even though his heart was sorely wounded by her choice.

“True, my son, and a dark day it may be for King Kavaran. When an Irish princess married Sitric the Dane, years of war came after. But see who presses through the crowd! Ah, my brave Norseman, thy bride must be dearly won! It is Alfwine!”

A man of powerful frame had leaped upon the platform. Drawing his sword, he cried, in a voice like a trumpet’s blast: “I have vowed that no man shall claim the princess before me! Touch not her hand, Sir Norseman, until thou hast won the right to hold it in a fair combat.”

At the sight of Alfwine the princess grew pale, and her fingers closed a little tighter in the stranger’s grasp.

Without releasing her hand in the least, the Norseman turned and coolly looked at the new-comer. “And who art thou that doth so loudly proclaim against the choice of the princess?”

“I am Alfwine, the Man-Slayer.”

“And thou wilt slay me if I claim the princess?” the Norseman calmly questioned, throwing aside his cloak and standing, sword in hand, before the champion.

They were splendidly matched. Alfwine was a trifle heavier in build, but the Norseman’s muscles and sinews were perfect. His blond head of curls was on line with Alfwine’s black shock of hair. Shoulder to shoulder they stood. A backward glance the Norseman gave Gyda, as if to fire his heart and temper his sword, and the combat began. If the crowd had been silent before, then they were breathless. Several knights had leaped upon the stage to judge the contest fairly. The swords flashed up and down, now at the Norseman’s heart, to be swiftly turned aside and his own blade perilously near Alfwine’s throat. A combat long drawn out it proved, for well-matched in strength, they were equally well-matched in skill. Alfwine’s sword had seemed to enter the vital left side of the stranger, and a sharp little cry had been wrung from Gyda. This gave the Norseman new strength and before the sword had pierced his tunic, he dashed it aside and drove his own into Alfwine, just above his heart. Dexterously stopping the weapon, he turned and looked at the princess. “One inch further, fair princess, and he dies. His life is thine, if so thou wilt command me.”

“Spare him! Spare him!” Gyda pleaded.

The Norseman drew out the sword, and Alfwine fell, wounded, but not unto death. Flinging the sword aside, the Norseman called to his bard. “Wipe the blood from it, Thorgills. It were an ugly sight for my lady, and I would not look upon it myself this happy day.”

The physicians had carried off Alfwine; and the Celts, even in their disappointment, were generously applauding the Northern hero.

“It was a noble fight, my father!” said Eogan, to whom the spectacle had given a flash of the warrior’s enthusiasm.

“I never saw fairer nor better,” old Fergus replied.

King Kavaran called the stranger to him. Taking Gyda by the hand, the monarch said impressively: “She is thine by every right of fair combat; but she is a king’s daughter, of Malachy’s royal blood, and stranger as thou art, thou must know that blood is too noble to mingle with unknown, perhaps with base streams. Therefore in all honor I require thee to say who thou art.”

The Norseman, instead of answering himself, turned to his scald. “Sing, Thorgills! Twang thy harp to my saga!”

Thorgills touched the strings of his instrument, and in a voice mellowed by pathos and love for his master, told in strong, rude verse the story of the Norseman. He sang of a widowed queen, Aastrid, in Norway, a young mother flying from her own and dead husband’s enemies, and hiding with her baby boy, on a bleak little island in Rand’s Fiord. Sang how she found a few months’ rest in her father’s home, and then, her son’s enemies seeking his life, changed her queenhood for a beggars robe, and attended by a harper only, she asked for their bread through the length and breadth of her kingdom. Sang of the slaying of the faithful harper Thoralf, that the peasants might take the handsome boy. The voice of the scald was shaken with sobs of sorrowful anger, as he told of the death of the harper, who had left wife and child to serve his exiled queen and his baby king. Told of his queen’s marriage to the powerful Chief Lodin, of Viken, and how the kinsmen sheltered the boy and hid his name until the time was ripe for gaining his crown. Sang how the boy, meeting the murderer of faithful old Thoralf, slew him upon the spot, and with only a young harper, the son of Thoralf, fled from Norway. Then the scald’s song followed the youth to Russia, to the court of Olga and Vladimir. Then followed him in the ship, where as a boy sea-king he went viking. Sang of his marriage to the Princess Geira, the daughter of King Burislav, in Wendland.