Then spake the King: "Be not afraid;
Sit here by me." The guest obeyed,
And, seated at the table, told
Tales of the sea, and Sagas old.

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogel

sang.

And ever, when the tale was o'er,
The King demanded yet one more;
Till Sigurd the Bishop smiling said,
"Tis late, O King, and time for bed."
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogel-

sang.

The King retired; the stranger guest Followed and entered with the rest; The lights were out, the pages gone, But still the garrulous guest spake on. Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogel

sang.

As one who from a volume reads,
He spake of heroes and their deeds,
Of lands and cities he had seen,
And stormy gulfs that tossed between.
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogel-
sang.

Then from his lips in music rolled
The Havamal of Odin old,
With sounds mysterious as the roar
Of billows on a distant shore.

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogel-
sang.

"Do we not learn from runes and
rhymes

Made by the gods in elder times,
And do not still the great Scalds teach
That silence better is than speech ?"

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogel-
sang.

Smiling at this, the King replied,
"Thy lore is by thy tongue belied;
For never was I so enthralled
Either by Saga-man or Scald.”

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogel-
sang.

The Bishop said, "Late hours we keep! Night wanes, O King! 'tis time for sleep!"

"Such sacrifices shalt thou bring,
To Odin and to Thor, O King,

As other kings have done in their
devotion!"

King Olaf answered: "I command
This land to be a Christian land;

Here is my Bishop who the folk bap-
tizes!

"But if you ask me to restore
Your sacrifices, stained with gore,
Then will I offer human sacrifices!

"Not slaves and peasants shall they be,

But men of note and high degree, Such men as Orm of Lyra and Kar of Gryting!"

Then to their Temple strode he in,
And loud behind him heard the din
Of his men-at-arms and the peasants
fiercely fighting.

There in the Temple, carved in wood
The image of great Odin stood,
And other gods, with Thor supreme
among them.

So all the Drontheim land became A Christian land in name and fame, In the old gods no more believing and

trusting.

And as a blood-atonement, soon King Olaf wed the fair Gudrun; And thus in peace ended the Drontheim Hus-Ting!

VIII.-GUDRUN.

ON King Olaf's bridal night Shines the moon with tender light, And across the chamber streams Its tide of dreams.

At the fatal midnight hour, When all evil things have power, In the glimmer of the moon Stands Gudrun.

Close against her heaving breast, Something in her hand is pressed; Like an icicle, its sheen

Is cold and keen.

On the cairn are fixed her eyes Where her murdered father lies, And a voice remote and drear She seems to hear.

What a bridal night is this! Cold will be the dagger's kiss; Laden with the chill of death

Is its breath.

Like the drifting snow she sweeps
To the couch where Olaf sleeps;
Suddenly he wakes and stirs,
His eyes meet hers.

"What is that," King Olaf said,
"Gleams so bright above thy head?
Wherefore standest thou so white

In pale moonlight?"

"""Tis the bodkin that I wear When at night I bind my hair;

It woke me falling on the floor;

'Tis nothing more."

Often treachery lurking lies
Underneath the fairest hair!
Gudrun, beware!

Ere the earliest peep of morn
Blew King Olaf's bugle-horn;
And forever sundered ride

Bridegroom and bride!

IX. THANGBRAND THE PRIEST.

SHORT of stature, large of limb,
Burly face and russet beard,
All the women stared at him,
When in Iceland he appeared.
"Look!" they said,
With nodding head,
"There goes Thangbrand, Olaf's
Priest."

All the prayers he knew by rote,
He could preach like Chrysostome,
From the Fathers he could quote,
He had even been at Rome.
A learned clerk,

A man of mark,

Was this Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest,

With words that go
Sprawling below,

"This is Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.”

Hardly knowing what he did,

Then he smote them might and main, Thorvald Veile and Veterlid

Lay there in the alehouse slain.
'To-day we are gold,

To-morrow mould !"

Muttered Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.
Much in fear of axe and rope,

Back to Norway sailed he then.
"O, King Olaf ! little hope
Is there of these Iceland men!"
Meekly said,

With bending head,
Pious Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.

X.-RAUD THE STRONG. "ALL the old gods are dead, All the wild warlocks fled;

But the White Christ lives and reigns,
And throughout my wide domains
His Gospel shall be spread !”

On the Evangelists

Thus swore King Olaf.

But still in dreams of the night
Beheld he the crimson light,
And heard the voice that defied
Him who was crucified,
And challenged him to the fight.
To Sigurd the Bishop
King Olaf confessed it.
And Sigurd the Bishop said,
"The old gods are not dead,
For the great Thor still reigns,
And among the Jarls and Thanes
The old witchcraft still is spread."

Thus to King Olaf

Said Sigurd the Bishop. "Far north in the Salten Fiord, By rapine, fire, and sword, Lives the Viking, Raud the Strong; All the Godoe Isles belong To him and his heathen horde." Thus went on speaking Sigurd the Bishop.

XI. BISHOP SIGURDAT SALTEN FIORD.

LOUD the angry wind was wailing
As King Olaf's ships came sailing
Northward out of Drontheim haven

To the mouth of Salten Fiord.
Though the flying sea-spray drenches
Fore and aft the rowers' benches,
Not a single heart is craven

Of the champions there on board.
All without the Fiord was quiet,
But within it storm and riot,
Such as on his Viking cruises

Raud the Strong was wont to ride.
And the sea through all its tide-ways
Swept the reeling vessels sideways,
As the leaves are swept through sluices,
When the flood-gates open wide.
"Tis the warlock! 'tis the demon
Raud!" cried Sigurd to the seamen :
"But the Lord is not affrighted

By the witchcraft of his foes."
To the ship's bow he ascended,
By his choristers attended,
Round him were the tapers lighted,

And the sacred incense rose.

On the bow stood Bishop Sigurd,
In his robes, as one transfigured,
And the Crucifix he planted

High amid the rain and mist.

Then with holy water sprinkled
All the ship; the mass-bells tinkled;
Loud the monks around him chanted,
Loud he read the Evangelist.

As into the Fiord they darted,
On each side the water parted;
Down a path like silver molten

Steadily rowed King Olaf's ships;

Steadily burned all night the tapers,
And the White Christ through the

vapours

Gleamed across the Fiord of Salten,

As through John's Apocalypse,Till at last they reached Raud's dwelling

On the little isle of Gelling;
Not a guard was at the doorway,

Not a glimmer of light was seen.

But at anchor, carved and gilded,
Lay the dragon-ship he builded;
'Twas the grandest ship in Norway,

With its crests and scales of green.

Up the stairway, softly creeping,
To the loft where Raud was sleeping,
With their fists they burst asunder

Bolt and bar that held the door. Drunken with sleep and ale they found him,

Dragged him from his bed and bound him,

While he stared with stupid wonder,

At the look and garb they wore. Then King Olaf said: “O Sea King! Little time have we for speaking, Choose between the good and evil :

Be baptized, or thou shalt die!" But in scorn the heathen scoffer Answered: "I disdain thine offer; Neither fear I God nor Devil;

Thee and thy Gospel I defy !"

Then between his jaws distended
When his frantic struggles ended,
Through King Olaf's horn an adder,

Touched by fire, they forced to glide.
Sharp his tooth was as an arrow,
As he gnawed through bone and marrow;
But without a groan or shudder,

Raud the Strong blaspheming died.
Then baptized they all that region,
Swarthy Lap and fair Norwegian,
Far as swims the salmon, leaping,

Up the streams of Salten Fiord.
In their temples Thor and Odin
Lay in dust and ashes trodden,
As King Olaf, onward sweeping,

Preached the Gospel with his sword. Then he took the carved and gilded Dragon-ship that Raud had builded, And the tiller single-handed,

Grasping, steered into the main. Southward sailed the sea-gulls o'er him, Southward sailed the ship that bore him, Till at Drontheim haven landed Olaf and his crew again.

XII.-KING OLAF'S CHRISTMAS.

AT Drontheim, Olaf the King
Heard the bells of Yule-tide ring,
As he sat in his banquet-hall,
Drinking the nut-brown ale,
With his bearded Berserks hale
And tall.

Three days his Yule-tide feasts
He held with Bishops and Priests,

And his horn filled up to the brim ;
But the ale was never too strong,
Nor the Saga-man's tale too long,
For him.

O'er his drinking horn, the sign
He made of the Cross divine,

As he drank, and muttered his
prayers;

But the Berserks evermore
Made the sign of the Hammer of Thor
Over theirs.