And on the threshold shivering stood
A one-eyed guest, with cloak and hood.
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang.

The King exclaimed, "O gray beard pale !

Come warm thee with this cup of ale." The foaming draught the old man

quaffed,

The noisy guests looked on and laughed.
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang.

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 Fogelsang.

And ever, when the tale was o'er,
The King demanded yet one more;
Till Sigurd the Bishop smiling said,
"'T is late, O King, and time for bed."

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang.

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 Fogelsang.

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 Fogelsang.

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 Fogelsang.

"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 Fogelsang.

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 Fogelsang.

The Bishop said, "Late hours we keep ! Night wanes, O King! 't is time for sleep!"

Then slept the King, and when he woke
The guest was gone, the morning broke.
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang.
They found the doors securely barred,
They found the watch-dog in the yard,
There was no footprint in the grass,
And none had seen the stranger pass.

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang.

King Olaf crossed himself and said:
"I know that Odin the Great is dead;
Sure is the triumph of our Faith,
The one-eyed stranger was his wraith."
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang.

He loved his horses and his herds, The smell of the earth, and the song of birds,

His well-filled barns, his brook with its water-cresses.

Huge and cumbersome was his frame; His beard, from which he took his

name,

Frosty and fierce, like that of Hymer the Giant.

So at the Hus-Ting he appeared, The farmer of Yriar, Iron-Beard, On horseback, in an attitude defiant.

And to King Olaf he cried aloud, Out of the middle of the crowd, That tossed about him like a stormy

ocean:

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

So all the Drontheim land became A Christian land in name and fame,

tion !

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;

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,

In his house this malcontent
Could the King no longer bear,
So to Iceland he was sent

To convert the heathen there,
And away

One summer day

Sailed this Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.

There in Iceland, o'er their books
Pored the people day and night,
But he did not like their looks,
Nor the songs they used to write.
"All this rhyme

Is waste of time!"

Grumbled Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.

To the alehouse, where he sat,
Came the Scalds and Saga-men;
Is it to be wondered at,

That they quarrelled now and then,
When o'er his beer
Began to leer

Drunken Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest?

All the folk in Altafiord

Boasted of their island grand;
Saying in a single word,
"Iceland is the finest land
That the sun

Doth shine upon!"

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.

He was quarrelsome and loud,
And impatient of control,
Boisterous in the market crowd,
Boisterous at the wassail-bowl,
Everywhere

Would drink and swear,

Swaggering Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.

And what vexed him most of all
Was a figure in shovel hat,

Drawn in charcoal on the wall;
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.

66

"O, King Olaf! little hope

Is there of these Iceland men!"
Meekly said,

With bending head,

Pious Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.

Then King Olaf cried aloud :
"I will talk with this mighty Raud,
And along the Salten Fiord
Preach the Gospel with my sword,
Or be brought back in my shroud!"
So northward from Drontheim
Sailed King Olaf !

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.

"A warlock, a wizard is he,

And lord of the wind and the sea;
And whichever way he sails,
He has ever favoring gales,
By his craft in sorcery.'

Here the sign of the cross
Made devoutly King Olaf.
"With rites that we both abhor,
He worships Odin and Thor;
So it cannot yet be said,
That all the old gods are dead,
And the warlocks are no more,"
Flushing with anger
Said Sigurd the Bishop.