From a Swedish homestead

Then he began again. He lay crying with his face in his hands.

'It is better to go out of one's mind again. I can hear them shouting after me, and I see myself, and the anguish, the anguish, the anguish——'

But then Ingrid's patience came to an end.

'Yes, that is right,' she cried; 'go out of your mind again. I call that manly to go mad in order to escape a little anguish.'

She sat biting her lips, struggling with her tears, and as she could not get the words out quickly enough, she seized him by the shoulder and shook him. She was enraged and quite beside herself with anger because he would again escape her, because he did not struggle and fight.

'What do you care about me? What do you care about your mother? You go mad, and then you will have peace.' She shook him again by the arm. 'To be saved from anguish, you say, but you don't care about one who has been waiting for you all her life. If you had any thought for anyone but yourself, you would fight against this and get well; but you have no thought for others. You can come so touchingly in visions and dreams and beg for help, but in reality you will not have any help. You imagine that your sufferings are greater than anyone else's, but there are others who have suffered more than you.'

At last Gunnar Hede raised his eyes, and looked her straight in the face. She was anything but beautiful at this moment. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, and her lips trembled, whilst she tried to get out the words between her sobs. But in his eyes her emotion only made her more beautiful. A wonderful peace came over him, and a great and humble thankfulness. Something great and wonderful had come to him in his deepest humiliation. It must be a great love—a great love.

He had sat bemoaning his wretchedness, and Love came and knocked at his door. He would not merely be tolerated when he came back to life; people would not only with difficulty refrain from laughing at him.

There was one who loved him and longed for him. She spoke hardly to him, but he heard love trembling in every single word. He felt as if she were offering him thrones and kingdoms. She told him that whilst he had been out of his mind he had saved her life. He had awakened her from the dead, had helped her, protected her. But this was not enough for her; she would possess him altogether.

When she kissed him he had felt a life-giving balm enter his sick soul, but he had hardly dared to think that it was love that made her. But he could not doubt her anger and her tears. He was beloved—he, poor wretched creature! he who had been held in derision by everybody! and before the great and humble bliss which now filled Gunnar Hede vanished the last darkness. It was drawn aside like a heavy curtain, and he saw plainly before him the region of terror through which he had wandered. But there, too, he had met Ingrid; there he had lifted her from the grave; there he had played for her at the hut in the forest; there she had striven to heal him.

But only the memory of her came back: the feelings with which she had formerly inspired him now awoke. Love filled his whole being; he felt the same burning longing that he had felt in the churchyard at Raglanda when she was taken from him.

In that region of terror, in that great desert, there had at any rate grown one flower that had comforted him with fragrance and beauty, and now he felt that love would dwell with him forever. The wild flower of the desert had been transplanted into the garden of life, and had taken root and grown and thriven, and when he felt this he knew he was saved; he knew that the darkness had found its master.

Ingrid was silent. She was tired, as one is tired after hard work; but she was also content, for she felt she had carried out her work in the best possible manner. She knew she had conquered.

At last Gunnar Hede broke the silence.

'I promise you that I will not give in,' he said.

'Thank you,' Ingrid answered.

Nothing more was said.

Gunnar Hede thought he would never be able to tell her how much he loved her. It could never be told in words, only shown every day and every hour of his life.

Queens at Kungahälla

On the Site of the Great Kungahälla

Should a stranger who had heard about the old city of Kungahälla ever visit the site on the northern river where it once lay, he would assuredly be much surprised. He would ask himself whether churches and fortifications could melt away like snow, or if the earth had opened and swallowed them up. He stands on a spot where formerly there was a mighty city, and he cannot find a street or a landing-stage. He sees neither ruins nor traces of devastating fires; he only sees a country seat, surrounded by green trees and red outbuildings. He sees nothing but broad meadows and fields, where the plough does its work year after year without being hindered either by brick foundations or old pavements.

He would probably first of all go down to the river. He would not expect to see anything of the great ships that went to the Baltic ports or to distant Spain, but he would in all likelihood think that he might find traces of the old ship-yards, of the large boat-houses and landing-stages. He presumes that he will find some of the old kilns where they used to refine salt; he will see the worn-out pavement on the main street that led to the harbour. He will inquire about the German pier and the Swedish pier; he would like to see the Weeping Bridge where the women of Kungahälla took leave of their husbands and sons when they went to distant lands, but when he comes down to the river's edge he sees nothing but a forest of waving reeds. He sees a road full of holes leading down to the ferry; he sees a couple of common barges and a little flat-bottomed ferryboat that is taking a peasant cart over to Hisingen, but no big ships come gliding up the river. He does not even see any dark hulls lying and rotting at the bottom of the river.

As he does not find anything remarkable down at the harbour, he will probably begin to look for the celebrated Convent Hill. He expects to see traces of the palisading and ramparts which in olden days surrounded it. He is hoping to see the ruins of the high walls and the long cloisters. He says to himself that anyhow there must be ruins of that magnificent church where the cross was kept—that miracle-working cross which had been brought from Jerusalem. He thinks of the number of monuments covering the holy hills which rise over other ancient cities, and his heart begins to beat with glad expectation. But when he comes to the old Convent Hill which rises above the fields, he finds nothing but clusters of murmuring trees; he finds neither walls, nor towers, nor gables perforated with pointed arched windows. Garden seats and benches he will find under the shadow of the trees, but no cloisters decorated with pillars, no hewn gravestones.

Well, if he has not found anything here, he will in any case try to find the old King's Hall. He thinks about the large halls from which Kungahälla is supposed to have derived its name. It might be that there was something left of the timber—a yard thick—that formed the walls, or of the deep cellars under the great hall where the Norwegian kings celebrated their banquets. He thinks of the smooth green courtyard of the King's Hall, where the kings used to ride their silver-shod chargers, and where the queens used to milk the golden-horned cows. He thinks of the lofty ladies' bower; of the brewing-room, with its large boilers; of the huge kitchen, where half an ox at a time was placed in the pot, and where a whole hog was roasted on the spit. He thinks of the serfs' house, of the falcon's cages, of the great pantries—house by house all round the courtyard, moss-grown with age, decorated with dragons' heads. Of such a number of buildings there must be some traces left, he thinks.

But should he then inquire for the old King's Hall, he will be taken to a modern country-house, with glass veranda and conservatories. The King's seat has vanished, and with it all the drinking-horns, inlaid with silver, and the shields, covered with skin. One cannot even show him the well-kept courtyard, with its short, close grass, and with narrow paths of black earth. He sees strawberry-beds and hedges of rose-trees; he sees happy children and young girls dancing under apple and pear trees. But he does not see strong men wrestling, or knights playing at ball.

Perhaps he asks about the great oak on the Market Place, beneath which the Kings sat in judgment, and where the twelve stones of judgment were set up. Or about the long street, which was said to be seven miles long! Or about the rich merchants' houses, separated by dark lanes, each having its own landing-stage and boathouse down by the river. Or about the Marie Church in the Market Place, where the seamen brought their offerings of small, full-rigged ships, and the sorrowful, small silver hearts.

But there is nothing left to show him of all these things. Cows and sheep graze where the long street used to be. Rye and barley grow on the Market Place, and stables and barns stand where people used to flock round the tempting market-stalls.

How can he help feeling disappointed? Is there not a single thing to be found, he says, not a single relic left? And he thinks perhaps that they have been deceiving him. The great Kungahälla can never have stood here, he says. It must have stood in some other place.

Then they take him down to the riverside, and show him a roughly-hewn stone block, and they scrape away the silver-gray lichen, so that he can see there are some figures hewn in the stone. He will not be able to understand what they represent; they will be as incomprehensible to him as the spots in the moon. But they will assure him that they represent a ship and an elk, and that they were cut in the stone in the olden days to commemorate the foundation of the city.

And should he still not be able to understand, they will tell him what is the meaning of the inscription on the stone.

The Forest Queen

Marcus Antonius Poppius was a Roman merchant of high standing. He traded with distant lands; and from the harbour at Ostia he sent well-equipped triremas to Spain, to Britain, and even to the north coast of Germany. Fortune favoured him, and he amassed immense riches, which he hoped to leave as an inheritance to his only son. Unfortunately, this only son had not inherited his father's ability. This happens, unfortunately, all the world over. A rich man's only son. Need one say more? It is, and always will be, the same story.

One would almost think that the gods give rich men these incorrigible idlers, these dull, pale, languid fools of sons, to show man what unutterable folly it is to amass riches. When will the eyes of mankind be opened? When will men listen to the warning voice of the gods?

Young Silvius Antonius Poppius, at the age of twenty, had already tried all the pleasures of life. He was also fond of letting people see that he was tired of them; but in spite of that, one did not notice any diminution in the eagerness with which he sought them. On the contrary, he was quite in despair when a singularly persistent ill-luck began to pursue him, and to interfere with all his pleasures. His Numidian horses fell lame the day before the great chariot race of the year; his illicit love affairs were found out; his cleverest cook died from malaria. This was more than enough to crush a man whose strength had not been hardened by exertion and toil. Young Poppius felt so unhappy that he made up his mind to take his own life. He seemed to think that this was the only way in which he could cheat the God of Misfortune who pursued him and made his life a burden.

One can understand that an unhappy creature commits suicide in order to escape the persecution of man; but only a fool like Silvius Antonius could think of adopting such means to flee from the gods. One recalls involuntarily the story of the man who, to escape from the lion, sprang right into its open jaws.

Young Silvius was much too effeminate to choose a bloody death. Neither had he any inclination to die from a painful poison. After careful consideration, he resolved to die the gentle death of the waves.

But when he went down to the Tiber to drown himself he could not make up his mind to give his body to the dirty, sluggish water of the river. For a long time he stood undecided, staring into the stream. Then he was seized by the magic charm which lies dreamily over a river. He felt that great, holy longing which fills these never-resting wanderers of nature; he would see the sea.

'I will die in the clear blue sea, through which the sun's rays penetrate right to the bottom,' said Silvius Antonius. 'My body shall rest upon a couch of pink coral. The foamy waves which I set in motion when I sink into the deep shall be snow-white and fresh; they shall not be like the sooty froth which lies quivering at the river-side.'

He immediately hurried home, had his horses harnessed and drove to Ostia. He knew that one of his father's ships was lying in the harbour ready to sail. Young Poppius drove his horses at a furious pace, and he succeeded in getting on board just as the anchor was being weighed. Of course he did not think it necessary to take any baggage with him. He did not even trouble to ask the skipper for what place the craft was bound. To the sea they were going, in any case—that was enough for him.

Nor was it very long before the young suicide reached the goal of his desire. The trirema passed the mouth of the Tiber, and the Mediterranean lay before Silvius Antonius, its sparkling waves bathed in sun. Its beauty made Silvius Antonius believe in the poet's assertion that the swelling ocean is but a thin veil which covers the most beautiful world. He felt bound to believe that he who boldly makes his way through this cover will immediately reach the sea-god's palace of pearls. The young man congratulated himself that he had chosen this manner of death. And one could scarcely call it that; it was impossible to believe that this beautiful water could kill. It was only the shortest road to a land where pleasure is not a delusion, leaving nothing but distaste and loathing. He could only with difficulty suppress his eagerness. But the whole deck was full of sailors. Even Silvius could understand that if he now sprang into the sea the consequence would simply be that one of his father's sailors would quickly spring overboard and fish him out.

As soon as the sails were set and the oarsmen were well in swing, the skipper came up to him and saluted him with the greatest politeness.

'You intend, then, to go with me to Germany, my Silvius?' he said. 'You do me great honour.'

Young Poppius suddenly remembered that this man used never to return from a voyage without bringing him some curious thing or other from the barbarous countries he had visited. Sometimes it was a couple of pieces of wood with which the savages made fire; sometimes it was the black horn of an ox, which they used as a drinking-vessel; sometimes a necklace of bear's teeth, which had been a great chief's mark of distinction.

The good man beamed with joy at having his master's son on board his ship. He saw in it a new proof of the wisdom of old Poppius, in sending his son to distant lands, instead of letting him waste more time amongst the effeminate young Roman idlers.

Young Poppius did not wish to undeceive him. He was afraid that if he disclosed his intention the skipper would at once turn back with him.

'Verily, Galenus,' he said, 'I would gladly accompany you on this voyage, but I fear I must ask you to put me ashore at Bajæ. I made up my mind too late. I have neither clothes nor money.'

But Galenus assured him that that need was soon remedied. Was he not upon his father's well-appointed vessel? He should not want for anything—neither warm fur tunic when the weather was cold, or light Syrian clothing of the kind that seamen wear when they cruise in fair weather in the friendly seas between the islands.

Three months after their departure from Ostia, Galenus's trirema rowed in amongst a cluster of rocky islands. Neither the skipper nor any of his crew were quite clear as to where they really were, but they were glad to take shelter for a time from the storms that raged on the open sea.

One could almost think that Silvius Antonius was right in his belief that some deity persecuted him. No one on the ship had ever before experienced such a voyage. The luckless sailors said to each other that they had not had fair weather for two days since they left Ostia. The one storm had followed upon the other. They had undergone the most terrible sufferings. They had suffered hunger and thirst, whilst they, day and night, exhausted and almost fainting from want of sleep, had had to manage sails and oars. The fact of the seamen being unable to trade had added to their despondency. How could they approach the coast and display their wares on the shore to effect an exchange in such weather? On the contrary, every time they saw the coast appear through the obstinate heavy mist that surrounded them, they had been compelled to put out to sea again for fear of the foam-decked rocks. One night, when they struck on a rock, they had been obliged to throw the half of their cargo into the sea. And as for the other half, they dared not think about it, as they feared it was completely spoiled by the breakers which had rolled over the ship.

Certain it was that Silvius Antonius had proved himself not to be lucky at sea either. Silvius Antonius was still living; he had not drowned himself. It is difficult to say why he prolonged an existence which could not be of any more pleasure to him now than when he first made up his mind to cut it short. Perhaps he had hoped that the sea would have taken possession of him without he himself doing anything to bring it about. Perhaps his love for the sea had passed away during its bursts of anger; perhaps he had resolved to die in the opal-green perfumed water of his bath.

But had Galenus and his men known why the young man had come on board, they would assuredly have bitterly complained that he had not carried out his intention, for they were all convinced that it was his presence which had called forth their misfortunes. Many a dark night Galenus had feared that the sailors would throw him into the sea. More than one of them related that in the terrible stormy nights he had seen dark hands stretching out of the water, grasping after the ship. And they did not think it was necessary to cast lots to find out who it was that these hands wanted to draw down into the deep. Both the skipper and the crew did Silvius Antonius the special honour to think that it was for his sake these storms rent the air and scourged the sea.

If Silvius during this time had behaved like a man, if he had taken his share of their work and anxiety, then perhaps some of his companions might have had pity upon him as a being who had brought upon himself the wrath of the gods. But the young man had not understood how to win their sympathy. He had only thought of seeking shelter for himself from the wind, and of sending them to fetch furs and rugs from the stores for his protection from the cold.

But for the moment all complaints over his presence had ceased. As soon as the storm had succeeded in driving the trirema into the quiet waters between the islands, its rage was spent. It behaved like a sheep-dog that becomes silent and keeps quiet as soon as it sees the sheep on the right way to the fold. The heavy clouds disappeared from the sky; the sun shone. For the first time during the voyage the sailors felt the joys of summer spreading over Nature.

Upon these storm-beaten men the sunshine and the warmth had almost an intoxicating effect. Instead of longing for rest and sleep, they became as merry as happy children in the morning. They expected they would find a large continent behind all these rocks and boulders. They hoped to find people, and—who could tell?—on this foreign coast, which had probably never before been visited by a Roman ship, their wares would no doubt find a ready sale. In that case they might after all do some good business, and bring back with them skins of bear and elk, and large quantities of white wax and golden amber.

Whilst the trirema slowly made its way between the rocks, which grew higher and higher and richer with verdure and trees, the crew made haste to decorate it so that it could attract the attention of the barbarians. The ship, which, even without any decoration, was a beautiful specimen of human handiwork, soon rivalled in splendour the most gorgeous bird. Recently tossed about by storms and ravaged by tempests, it now bore on its topmast a golden sceptre and sails striped with purple. In the bows a resplendent figure of Neptune was raised, and in the stern a tent of many-coloured silken carpets. And do not think the sailors neglected to hang the sides of the ship with rugs, the fringes of which trailed in the water, or to wind the long oars of the ship with golden ribbons. Neither did the crew of the ship wear the clothes they had worn during the voyage, and which the sea and the storm had done their best to destroy. They arrayed themselves in white garments, wound purple scarves round their waists, and placed glittering bands in their hair.

Even Silvius Antonius roused himself from his apathy. It was as if he was glad of having at last found something to do which he thoroughly understood. He was shaved, had his hair trimmed, and his whole person rubbed over with fragrant scents. Then he put on a flowing robe, hung a mantle over his shoulders, and chose from the large casket of jewels which Galenus opened for him rings and bracelets, necklaces, and a golden belt. When he was ready he flung aside the purple curtains of the silken tent, and laid himself on a couch in the opening of the tent in order to be seen by the people on the shore.

During these preparations the sea became narrower and narrower, and the sailors discovered that they were entering the mouth of a river. The water was fresh, and there was land on both sides. The trirema glided slowly onwards up the sparkling river. The weather was brilliant, and the whole of nature was gloriously peaceful. And how the magnificent merchantman enlivened the great solitude!

On both sides of the river primeval forests, high and thick, met their view. Pine-trees grew right to the water's edge. The river in its eternal course had washed away the earth from the roots, and the hearts of the seamen were moved with solemn awe at the sight, not only of these venerable trees, but even more by that of the naked roots, which resembled the mighty limbs of a giant. 'Here,' they thought, 'man will never succeed in planting corn; here the ground will never be cleared for the building of a city, or even a farmstead. For miles round the earth is woven through with this network of roots, hard as steel. This alone is sufficient to make the dominion of the forest everlasting and unchangeable.'

Along the river the trees grew so close, and their branches were so entangled, that they formed firm, impenetrable walls. These walls of prickly firs were so strong and high that no fortified city need wish for stronger defences. But here and there there was, all the same, an opening in this wall of firs. It was the paths the wild beasts had made on their way to the river to drink. Through these openings the strangers could obtain a glimpse of the interior of the forest. They had never seen anything like it. In sunless twilight there grew trees with trunks of greater circumference than the gate-towers on the walls of Rome. There was a multitude of trees, fighting with each other for light and air. Trees strove and struggled, trees were crippled and weighed down by other trees. Trees took root in the branches of other trees. Trees strove and fought as if they had been human beings.

But if man or beast moved in this world of trees they must have other modes of making their way than those which the Romans knew, for from the ground right up to the top of the forest was a network of stiff bare branches. From these branches fluttered long tangles of gray lichen, transforming the trees into weird beings with hair and beard. And beneath them the ground was covered with rotten and rotting trunks, and one's feet would have sunk into the decayed wood as into melting snow.

The forest sent forth a fragrance which had a drowsy effect upon the men on board the ship. It was the strong odour of resin and wild honey that blended with the sickly smell from the decayed wood, and from innumerable gigantic red and yellow mushrooms.

There was no doubt something awe-inspiring in all this, but it was also elevating to see nature in all its power before man had yet interfered with its dominion. It was not long before one of the sailors began to sing a hymn to the God of the Forest, and involuntarily the whole crew joined in. They had quite given up all thought of meeting human beings in this forest-world. Their hearts were filled with pious thoughts; they thought of the forest god and his nymphs. They said to themselves that when Pan was driven from the woods of Hellas he must have taken refuge here in the far north. With pious songs they entered his kingdom.

Every time there was a pause in the song they heard a gentle music from the forest. The tops of the fir-trees, vibrating in the noonday heat, sang and played. The sailors often discontinued their song in order to listen, if Pan was not playing upon his flute.

The oarsmen rowed slower and slower. The sailors gazed searchingly into the golden-green and black-violet water flowing under the fir-trees. They peered between the tall reeds which quivered and rustled in the wash of the ship. They were in such a state of expectation that they started at the sight of the white water-lilies that shone in the dark water between the reeds.

And again they sang the song, 'Pan, thou ruler of the forest!' They had given up all thoughts of trading. They felt that they stood at the entrance to the dwelling of the gods. All earthly cares had left them. Then, all of a sudden, at the outlet of one of the tracks, there stood an elk, a royal deer with broad forehead and a forest of antlers on its horns.

There was a breathless silence on the trirema. They stemmed the oars to slacken speed. Silvius Antonius arose from his purple couch.

All eyes were fixed upon the elk. They thought they could discern that it carried something on its back, but the darkness of the forest and the drooping branches made it impossible to see distinctly.

The huge animal stood for a long time and scented the air, with its muzzle turned towards the trirema. At last it seemed to understand that there was no danger. It made a step towards the water. Behind the broad horns one could now discern more distinctly something light and white. They wondered if the elk carried on its back a harvest of wild roses.

The crew gently plied their oars. The trirema drew nearer to the animal, which gradually moved towards the edge of the reeds.

The elk strode slowly into the water, put down its feet carefully, so as not to be caught by the roots at the bottom. Behind the horns one could now distinctly see the face of a maiden, surrounded by fair hair. The elk carried on its back one of those nymphs whom they had been expectantly awaiting, and whom they felt sure would be found in this primeval world.

A holy enthusiasm filled the men on the trirema. One of them, who hailed from Sicily, remembered a song which he had heard in his youth, when he played on the flowery plains around Syracuse. He began to sing softly:

And when the weather-beaten men understood the words, they tried to subdue the storm-like roar in their voices in order to sing:

They steered the ship nearer and nearer the reeds. They did not heed that it had already once or twice touched the bottom.

But the young forest maiden sat and played hide-and-seek between the horns. One moment she hid herself, the next she peeped out. She did not stop the elk; she drove it further into the river.

When the elk had gone some little distance, she stroked it to make it stop. Then she bent down and gathered two or three water-lilies. The men on the ship looked a little foolishly at each other. The nymph had, then, come solely for the purpose of plucking the white water-lilies that rocked on the waters of the river. She had not come for the sake of the Roman seamen.

Then Silvius Antonius drew a ring from off his finger, sent up a shout that made the nymph look up, and threw her the ring. She stretched out her hand and caught it. Her eyes sparkled. She stretched out her hands for more. Silvius Antonius again threw a ring.

Then she flung the water-lilies back into the river and drove the elk further into the water. Now and again she stopped, but then a ring came flying from Silvius Antonius, and enticed her further.

All at once she overcame her hesitation. The colour rose in her cheeks. She came nearer to the ship without it being necessary to tempt her. The water was already up to the shoulders of the elk. She came right under the side of the vessel.

The sailors hung over the gunwales to help the beautiful nymph, should she wish to go on board the trirema.

But she saw only Silvius Antonius, as he stood there, decked with pearls and rings, and fair as the sunrise. And when the young Roman saw that the eyes of the nymph were fastened upon him, he leant over even further than the others. They cried to him that he should take care, lest he should lose his balance and fall into the sea. But this warning came too late. It is not known whether the nymph, with a quick movement, drew Silvius Antonius to her, or how it really happened, but before anyone thought of grasping him, he was overboard.

All the same, there was no danger of Silvius Antonius drowning. The nymph stretched forth her lovely arms and caught him in them. He hardly touched the surface of the water. At the same moment her steed turned, rushed through the water, and disappeared in the forest. And loudly rang the laugh of the wild rider as she carried off Silvius Antonius.

Galenus and his men stood for a moment horror-stricken. Then some of the men involuntarily threw off their clothes to swim to the shore; but Galenus stopped them.

'Without doubt this is the will of the gods,' he said. 'Now we see the reason why they have brought Silvius Antonius Poppius through a thousand storms to this unknown land. Let us be glad that we have been an instrument in their hands; and let us not seek to hinder their will.'

The seamen obediently took their oars and rowed down the river, softly singing to their even stroke the song of Arethusa's flight.

When one has finished this story, surely the stranger must be able to understand the inscription on the old stone. He must be able to see both the elk with its many-antlered horns, and the trirema with its long oars. One does not expect that he shall be able to see Silvius Antonius Poppius and the beautiful queen of the primeval forest, for in order to see them he must have the eyes of the relaters of fairy-tales of bygone days. He will understand that the inscription hales from the young Roman himself, and that this also applies to the whole of the old story. Silvius Antonius has handed it down to his descendants word for word. He knew that it would gladden their hearts to know that they sprang from the world-famed Romans.

But the stranger, of course, need not believe that any of Pan's nymphs have wandered here by the river's side. He understands quite well that a tribe of wild men have wandered about in the primeval forest, and that the rider of the elk was the daughter of the King who ruled over these people; and that the maiden who carried off Silvius Antonius would only rob him of his jewels, and that she did not at all think of Silvius Antonius himself, scarcely knew, perhaps, that he was a human being like herself. And the stranger can also understand that the name of Silvius Antonius would have been forgotten long ago in this country had he remained the fool he was. He will hear how misfortune and want roused the young Roman, so that from being the despised slave of the wild men he became their King. It was he who attacked the forest with fire and steel. He erected the first firmly-timbered house. He built vessels and planted corn. He laid the foundation of the power and glory of great Kungahälla.

And when the stranger hears this, he looks around the country with a more contented glance than before. For even if the site of the city has been turned into fields and meadows, and even if the river no longer boasts of busy craft, still, this is the ground that has enabled him to breathe the air of the land of dreams, and shown him visions of bygone days.

Sigrid Storräde

Once upon a time there was an exceedingly beautiful spring. It was the very spring that the Swedish Queen Sigrid Storräde summoned the Norwegian King Olaf Trygveson to meet her at Kungahälla in order to settle about their marriage.

It was strange that King Olaf would marry Queen Sigrid; for although she was fair and well-gifted, she was a wicked heathen, whilst King Olaf was a Christian, who thought of nothing but building churches and compelling the people to be baptized. But maybe the King thought that God the Almighty would convert her.

But it was even more strange that when Storräde had announced to King Olaf's messenger that she would set out for Kungahälla as soon as the sea was no longer ice-bound, spring should come almost immediately. Cold and snow disappeared at the time when winter is usually at its height. And when Storräde made known that she would begin to equip her ships, the ice vanished from the fjords, the meadows became green, and although it was yet a long time to Lady-day, the cattle could already be put out to grass.

When the Queen rowed between the rocks of East Gothland into the Baltic, she heard the cuckoo's song, although it was so early in the year that one could scarcely expect to hear the lark.

And great joy prevailed everywhere when Storräde proceeded on her way. All the trolls who had been obliged to flee from Norway during King Olaf's reign because they could not bear the sound of the church bells came on the rocks when they saw Storräde sailing past. They pulled up young birch-trees by the roots and waved them to the Queen, and then they went back to their rocky dwellings, where their wives were sitting, full of longing and anxiety, and said:

'Woman, thou shalt not be cast down any longer. Storräde is now sailing to King Olaf. Now we shall soon return to Norway.'

When the Queen sailed past Kullen, the Kulla troll came out of his cave, and he made the black mountain open, so that she saw the gold and silver veins which twisted through it, and it made the Queen happy to see his riches.

When Storräde went past the Holland rivers, the Nixie came down from his waterfall, swam right out to the mouth of the river, and played upon his harp, so that the ship danced upon the waves.

When she sailed past the Nidinge rocks, the mermen lay there and blew upon their seashell horns, and made the water splash in frothy pillars. And when the wind was against them, the most loathsome trolls came out of the deep to help Storräde's ship over the waves. Some lay at the stern and pushed, others took ropes of seaweed in their mouth and harnessed themselves before the ship like horses.

The wild heathen, whom King Olaf would not allow to remain in the country on account of their great wickedness, came rowing towards the Queen's ship, with sails furled, and with their pole-axes raised as if for attack. But when they recognised the Queen, they allowed her to pass unhurt, and shouted after her:

'We empty a beaker to thy wedding, Storräde.'

All the heathen who lived along the coast laid firewood upon their stone altars, and sacrificed both sheep and goats to the old gods, in order that they should aid Storräde in her expedition to the Norwegian King.

When the Queen sailed up the northern river, a mermaid swam alongside the ship, stretched her white arm out of the water, and gave her a large clear pearl.

'Wear this, Storräde,' she said; 'then King Olaf will be so bewitched by thy beauty that he will never be able to forget thee.'

When the Queen had sailed a short distance up the river, she heard such a roar and such a rushing noise that she expected to find a waterfall. The further she proceeded, the louder grew the noise. But when she rowed past the Golden Isle, and passed into a broad bay, she saw at the riverside the great Kungahälla.

The town was so large, that as far as she could see up the river there was house after house, all imposing and well timbered, with many outhouses. Narrow lanes between the gray wooden walls led down to the river; there were large courtyards before the dwelling-houses, well-laid pathways went from each house down to its boathouse and landing-stage.

Storräde commanded her men to row quite slowly. She herself stood on the poop of the ship and looked towards the shore.

'Never before have I seen the like of this,' she said.

She now understood that the roar she had heard was nothing but the noise of the work which went on at Kungahälla in the spring, when the ships were being made ready for their long cruises. She heard the smiths hammering with huge sledge-hammers, the baker's shovel clattered in the ovens; beams were hoisted on to heavy lighters with much crashing noise; young men planed oars and stripped the bark from the trees which were to be used for masts.

She saw green courtyards, where handmaidens were twining ropes for the seafaring men, and where old men sat mending the gray wadmal sails. She saw the boat-builders tarring the new boats. Enormous nails were driven into strong oaken planks. The hulls of the ships were hauled out of the boathouses to be tightened; old ships were done up with freshly-painted dragon-heads; goods were stowed away; people took a hurried leave of each other; heavily-filled ships' chests were carried on board. Ships that were ready to sail left the shore. Storräde saw that the vessels rowing up the river were heavily laden with herrings and salt, but those making for the open sea were laden high up the masts with costly oak timber, hides, and skins.

When the Queen saw all this she laughed with joy. She thought that she would willingly marry King Olaf in order to rule over such a city. Storräde rowed up to the King's Landing-Stage. There King Olaf stood ready to receive her, and when she advanced to meet him he thought that she was the fairest woman he had ever seen.

They then proceeded to the King's Hall, and there was great harmony and friendship between them. When they went to table Storräde laughed and talked the whole time the Bishop was saying grace, and the King laughed and talked also, because he saw that it pleased Storräde. When the meal was finished, and they all folded their hands to listen to the Bishop's prayer, Storräde began to tell the King about her riches. She continued doing this as long as the prayer lasted, and the King listened to Storräde, and not to the Bishop.

The King placed Storräde in the seat of honour, whilst he sat at her feet; and Storräde told him how she had caused two minor kings to be burnt to death for having had the presumption to woo her. The King was glad at hearing this, and thought that all minor kings who had the audacity to woo a woman like Storräde should share the same fate.

When the bells rang for Evensong, the King rose to go to the Marie Church to pray, as was his wont. But then Storräde called for her bard, and he sang the lay of Brynhild Budles-dotter, who caused Sigurd Fofnersbane to be slain; and King Olaf did not go to church, but instead sat and looked into Storräde's radiant eyes, under the thick, black, arched eyebrows; and he understood that Storräde was Brynhild, and that she would kill him if ever he forsook her. He also thought that she was no doubt a woman who would be willing to burn on the pile with him. And whilst the priests were saying Mass and praying in the Marie Church at Kungahälla, King Olaf sat thinking that he would ride to Valhalla with Sigrid Storräde before him on the horse.

That night the ferryman who conveyed people over the Göta River was busier than he had ever been before. Time after time he was called to the other side, but when he crossed over there was never anybody to be seen. But all the same he heard steps around him, and the boat was so full that it was nearly sinking. He rowed the whole night backwards and forwards, and did not know what it could all mean. But in the morning the whole shore was full of small footprints, and in the footprints the ferryman found small withered leaves, which on closer examination proved to be pure gold, and he understood they were the Brownies and Dwarfs who had fled from Norway when it became a Christian country, and who had now come back again. And the giant who lived in the Fortin mountain right to the east of Kungahälla threw one big stone after the other at the Marie Church the whole night through; and had not the giant been so strong that all the stones went too far and fell down at Hisingen, on the other side of the river, a great disaster would assuredly have happened.

Every morning King Olaf was in the habit of going to Mass, but the day Storräde was at Kungahälla he thought he had not the time. As soon as he arose, he at once wanted to go down to the harbour, where her ship lay, in order to ask her if she would drink the wedding-cup with him before eventide.

The Bishop had caused the bells to be rung the whole morning, and when the King left the King's Hall, and went across the Market Place, the church doors were thrown open, and beautiful singing was heard from within. But the King went on as if he had not heard anything. The Bishop ordered the bells to be stopped, the singing ceased, and the candles were extinguished.

It all happened so suddenly that the King involuntarily stopped and looked towards the church, and it seemed to him that the church was more insignificant than he had ever before thought. It was smaller than the houses in the town; the peat roof hung heavily over its low walls without windows; the door was low, with a small projecting roof covered with fir-bark.

Whilst the King stood thinking, a slender young woman came out of the dark church door. She wore a red robe and a blue mantle, and she bore in her arms a child with fair locks. Her dress was poor, and yet it seemed to the King that he had never before seen a more noble-looking woman. She was tall, dignified, and fair of face.

The King saw with emotion that the young woman pressed the child close to her, and carried it with such care, that one could see it was the most precious thing she possessed in the world.

As the woman stood in the doorway she turned her gentle face round and looked back, looked into the poor, dark little church with great longing in look and mien. When she again turned round towards the Market Place there were tears in her eyes. But just as she was about to step over the threshold into the Market Place her courage failed her. She leant against the doorposts and looked at the child with a troubled glance, as if to say:

'Where in all the wide world shall we find a roof over our heads?'

The King stood immovable, and looked at the homeless woman. What touched him the most was to see the child, who lay in her arms free from sorrow, stretch out his hand with a flower towards her, as if to win a smile from her. And then he saw she tried to drive away the sorrow from her face and smile at her son.

'Who can that woman be?' thought the King. 'It seems to me that I have seen her before. She is undoubtedly a high-born woman who is in trouble.'

However great a hurry the King was in to go to Storräde, he could not take his eyes away from the woman. It seemed to him that he had seen these tender eyes and this gentle face before, but where, he could not call to mind. The woman still stood in the church door, as if she could not tear herself away. Then the King went up to her and asked:

'Why art thou so sorrowful?'

'I am turned out of my home,' answered the woman, pointing to the little dark church.

The King thought she meant that she had taken refuge in the church because she had no other place to go to. He again asked:

'Who hath turned thee out?'

She looked at him with an unutterably sorrowful glance.

'Dost thou not know?' she asked.

But then the King turned away from her. He had no time to stand guessing riddles, he thought. It appeared as if the woman meant that it was he who had turned her out. He did not understand what she could mean.

The King went on quickly. He went down to the King's Landing-Stage, where Storräde's ship was lying. At the harbour the Queen's servants met the King. Their clothes were braided with gold, and they wore silver helmets on their heads.

Storräde stood on her ship looking towards Kungahälla, rejoicing in its power and wealth. She looked at the city as if she already regarded herself as its Queen. But when the King saw Storräde, he thought at once of the gentle woman who, poor and sorrowful, had been turned out of the church.

'What is this?' he thought. 'It seems to me as if she were fairer than Storräde.'

When Storräde greeted him with smiles, he thought of the tears that sparkled in the eyes of the other woman. The face of the strange woman was so clear to King Olaf that he could not help comparing it, feature for feature, with Storräde's. And when he did that all Storräde's beauty vanished. He saw that Storräde's eyes were cruel and her mouth sensual. In each of her features he saw a sin. He could still see she was beautiful, but he no longer took pleasure in her countenance. He began to loathe her as if she were a beautiful poisonous snake.

When the Queen saw the King come a victorious smile passed over her lips.

'I did not expect thee so early, King Olaf,' she said. 'I thought thou wast at Mass.'

The King felt an irresistible inclination to contradict Storräde, and do everything she did not want.

'Mass has not yet begun,' he said. 'I have come to ask thee to go with me to the house of my God.'

When the King said this he saw an angry look in Storräde's eyes, but she continued to smile.

'Rather come to me on my ship,' she said, 'and I will show thee the presents I have brought for thee.'

She took up a sword inlaid with gold, as if to tempt him; but the King thought all the time that he could see the other woman at her side, and it appeared to him that Storräde stood amongst her treasures like a foul dragon.

'Answer me first,' said the King, 'if thou wilt go with me to church.'

'What have I to do in thy church?' she asked mockingly.

Then she saw that the King's brow darkened, and she perceived that he was not of the same mind as the day before. She immediately changed her manner, and became gentle and submissive.

'Go thou to church as much as thou likest, even if I do not go. There shall be no discord between us on that account.'

The Queen came down from the ship and went up to the King. She held in her hand a sword and a mantle trimmed with fur which she would give him. But in the same moment the King happened to look towards the harbour. At some distance he saw the other woman; her head was bowed, and she walked with weary steps, but she still bore the child in her arms.

'What art thou looking so eagerly after, King Olaf?' Storräde asked.

Then the other woman turned round and looked at the King, and as she looked at him it appeared to him as if a ring of golden light surrounded her head and that of the child, more beautiful than the crown of any King or Queen. Then she immediately turned round and walked again towards the town, and he saw her no more.

'What art thou looking so eagerly after?' again asked Storräde.

But when King Olaf now turned to the Queen she appeared to him old and ugly, and full of the world's sin and wickedness, and he was terrified at the thought that he might have fallen into her snares.

He had taken off his glove to give her his hand; but he now took the glove and threw it in her face instead.

'I will not own thee, foul woman and heathen dog that thou art!' he said.

Then Storräde drew backwards. But she soon regained the command over herself, and answered:

'That blow may prove thy destruction, King Olaf Trygveson.'

And she was white as Hél when she turned away from him and went on board her ship.

Next night King Olaf had a strange dream. What he saw in his dream was not the earth, but the bottom of the sea. It was a grayish-green field, over which there were many fathoms of water. He saw fish swimming after their prey; he saw ships gliding past on the surface of the water, like dark clouds; and he saw the disc of the sun, dull as a pale moon.

Then he saw the woman he had seen at the church-door wandering along the bottom of the sea. She had the same stooping gait and the same worn garments as when he first saw her, and her face was still sorrowful. But as she wandered along the bottom of the sea the water divided before her. He saw that it rose into pillars, as if in deep reverence, forming itself into arches, so that she walked in the most glorious temple.

Suddenly the King saw that the water which surrounded the woman began to change colour. The pillars and the arches first became pale pink; but they soon assumed a darker colour. The whole sea around was also red, as if it had been changed into blood.

At the bottom of the sea, where the woman walked, the King saw broken swords and arrows, and bows and spears in pieces. At first there were not many, but the longer she walked in the red water the more closely they were heaped together.

The King saw with emotion that the woman went to one side in order not to tread upon a dead man who lay stretched upon the bed of green seaweed. The man, who had a deep cut in his head, wore a coat of mail, and had a sword in his hand. It seemed to the King that the woman closed her eyes so as not to see the dead man. She moved towards a fixed goal without hesitation or doubt. But he who dreamt could not turn his eyes away.

He saw the bottom of the sea covered with wreckage. He saw heavy anchors, thick ropes twined about like snakes, ships with their sides riven asunder; golden dragon-heads from the bows of ships stared at him with red, threatening eyes.

'I should like to know who has fought a battle here and left all this as a prey to destruction,' thought the dreamer.

Everywhere he saw dead men. They were hanging on the ships' sides, or had sunk into the green seaweed. But he did not give himself time to look at them, for his eyes were obliged to follow the woman, who continued to walk onwards.

At last the King saw her stop at the side of a dead man. He was clothed in a red mantle, had a bright helmet on his head, a shield on his arm, and a naked sword in his hand.

The woman bent over him and whispered to him, as if awaking someone sleeping:

'King Olaf! King Olaf!'

Then he who was dreaming saw that the man at the bottom of the sea was himself. He could distinctly see that he was the dead man.

As the dead did not move, the woman knelt by his side and whispered into his ear:

'Now Storräde hath sent her fleet against thee and avenged herself. Dost thou repent what thou hast done, King Olaf?'

And again she asked:

'Now thou sufferest the bitterness of death because thou hast chosen me instead of Storräde. Dost thou repent? dost thou repent?'

Then at last the dead opened his eyes, and the woman helped him to rise. He leant upon her shoulder, and she walked slowly away with him.

Again King Olaf saw her wander and wander, through night and day, over sea and land. At last it seemed to him that they had gone further than the clouds and higher than the stars. Now they entered a garden, where the earth shone as light and the flowers were clear as dewdrops.

The King saw that when the woman entered the garden she raised her head, and her step grew lighter. When they had gone a little further into the garden her garments began to shine. He saw that they became, as of themselves, bordered with golden braid, and coloured with the hues of the rainbow. He saw also that a halo surrounded her head that cast a light over her countenance.

But the slain man who leant upon her shoulder raised his head, and asked:

'Who art thou?'

'Dost thou not know, King Olaf?' she answered; and an infinite majesty and glory encompassed her.

But in the dream King Olaf was filled with a great joy because he had chosen to serve the gentle Queen of Heaven. It was a joy so great that he had never before felt the like of it, and it was so strong that it awoke him.

When King Olaf awoke his face was bathed in tears, and he lay with his hands folded in prayer.

Astrid

I

In the midst of the low buildings forming the old Castle of the Kings at Upsala towered the Ladies' Bower. It was built on poles, like a dovecote. The staircase leading up to it was as steep as a ladder, and one entered it by a very low door. The walls inside were covered with runes, signifying love and longing; the sills of the small loopholes were worn by the maidens leaning on their elbows and looking down into the courtyard.

Old Hjalte, the bard, had been a guest at the King's Castle for some time, and he went up every day to the Ladies' Bower to see Princess Ingegerd, and talk with her about Olaf Haraldsson, the King of Norway, and every time Hjalte came Ingegerd's bondwoman Astrid sat and listened to his words with as much pleasure as the Princess. And whilst Hjalte talked, both the maidens listened so eagerly that they let their hands fall in their laps and their work rest.

Anyone seeing them would not think much spinning or weaving could be done in the Ladies' Bower. No one would have thought that they gathered all Hjalte's words as if they were silken threads, and that each of his listeners made from them her own picture of King Olaf. No one could know that in their thoughts they wove the Bard's words each into her own radiant picture.

But so it was. And the Princess's picture was so beautiful that every time she saw it before her she felt as if she must fall on her knees and worship it. For she saw the King sitting on his throne, crowned and great; she saw a red, gold-embroidered mantle hanging from his shoulders to his feet. She saw no sword in his hand, but holy writings; and she also saw that his throne was supported by a chained troll. His face shone for her, white like wax, surrounded by long, soft locks, and his eyes beamed with piety and peace. Oh, she became nearly afraid when she saw the almost superhuman strength that shone from that pale face. She understood that King Olaf was not only a King, she saw that he was a saint, and the equal of the angels.

But quite different was the picture which Astrid had made of the King. The fair-haired bondwoman, who had experienced both hunger and cold and suffered much hardship, but who all the same was the one who filled the Ladies' Bower with merriment and laughter, had in her mind an entirely different picture of the King. She could not help that every time she heard him spoken about she saw before her the wood-cutter's son who at eventide came out of the wood with the axe over his shoulder.

'I can see thee—I can see thee so well,' Astrid said to the picture, as if it were a living being. 'Tall thou art not, but broad of shoulders and light and agile, and because thou hast walked about in the dark forest the whole long summer day thou takest the last few steps in one spring, and laughest when thou reachest the road. Then thy white teeth shine, and thy hair flies about, and that I love to see. I can see thee; thou hast a fair, ruddy face and freckles on thy nose, and thou hast blue eyes, which become dark and stern in the deep forest; but when thou comest so far that thou seest the valley and thy home, they become light and gentle. As soon as thou seest thine own hut down in the valley, thou raisest thy cap for a greeting, and then I see thy forehead. Is not that forehead befitting a King? Should not that broad forehead be able to wear both crown and helmet?'

But however different these two pictures were, one thing is certain: just as much as the Princess loved the holy picture she had conjured forth, so did the poor bondwoman love the bold swain whom she saw coming from the depths of the forest to meet her.

And had Hjalte the Bard been able to see these pictures he would have assuredly praised them both. He would assuredly have said that they both were like the King. For that is King Olaf's good fortune, he would have been sure to say, that he is a fresh and merry swain at the same time that he is God's holy warrior. For old Hjalte loved King Olaf, and although he had wandered from court to court he had never been able to find his equal.

'Where can I find anyone to make me forget Olaf Haraldsson?' he was wont to say. 'Where shall I find a greater hero?'

Hjalte the Bard was a rough old man and severe of countenance. Old as he was, his hair was still black, he was dark of complexion, and his eyes were keen, and his song had always tallied with his appearance. His tongue never uttered other words than those of strife; he had never made other lays than songs of war.

Old Hjalte's heart had hitherto been like the stony waste outside the wood-cutter's hut; it had been like a rocky plain, where only poor ferns and dry mugworts could grow. But now Hjalte's roving life had brought him to the Court at Upsala, and he had seen the Princess Ingegerd. He had seen that she was the noblest of all the women he had met in his life—in truth, the Princess was just as much fairer than all other women as King Olaf was greater than all other men.

Then the thought suddenly arose within Hjalte that he would try to awaken love between the Swedish Princess and the Norwegian King. He asked himself why she, who was the best amongst women, should not be able to love King Olaf, the most glorious amongst men? And after that thought had taken root in Hjalte's heart he gave up making his stern war-songs. He gave up trying to win praise and honour from the rough warriors at the Court of Upsala, and sat for many hours with the women in the Ladies' Bower, and one would never have thought that it was Hjalte who spoke. One would never have believed that he possessed such soft and fair and gentle words which he now used in speaking about King Olaf.

No one would have known Hjalte again; he was entirely transformed ever since the thought of the marriage had arisen within him. When the beautiful thought took root in Hjalte's soul, it was as if a blushing rose, with soft and fragrant petals, had sprung up in the midst of a wilderness.

One day Hjalte sat with the Princess in the Ladies' Bower. All the maidens were absent except Astrid. Hjalte thought that now he had spoken long enough about Olaf Haraldsson. He had said all the fair words he could about him, but had it been of any avail? What did the Princess think of the King? Then he began to lay snares for the Princess to find out what she thought of King Olaf.

'I can see from a look or a blush,' he thought.

But the Princess was a high-born lady; she knew how to conceal her thoughts. She neither blushed nor smiled, neither did her eyes betray her. She would not let Hjalte divine what she thought.

When the Bard looked into her noble face he was ashamed of himself.

'She is too good for anyone to take her by stealth,' he said; 'one must meet her in open warfare.' So Hjalte said straight out: 'Daughter of a King, if Olaf Haraldsson asked thee in marriage of thy father, what wouldst thou answer?'

Then the young Princess's face lit up, as does the face of a man when he reaches the mountain-top and discovers the ocean. Without hesitation she replied at once:

'If he be such a King and such a Christian as thou sayest, Hjalte, then I consider it would be a great happiness.'

But scarcely had she said this before the light faded from her eyes. It was as if a cloud rose between her and the beautiful far-off vision.

'Oh, Hjalte,' she said, 'thou forgettest one thing. King Olaf is our enemy. It is war and not wooing we may expect from him.'

'Do not let that trouble thee,' said Hjalte. 'If thou only wilt, all is well. I know King Olaf's mind in this matter.'

The Bard was so glad that he laughed when he said this; but the Princess grew more and more sorrowful.

'No,' she said, 'neither upon me nor King Olaf does it depend, but upon my father, Oluf Skötkonung, and you know that he hates Olaf Haraldsson, and cannot bear that anyone should even mention his name. Never will he let me leave my father's house with an enemy; never will he give his daughter to Olaf Haraldsson.'

When the Princess had said this, she laid aside all her pride and began to lament her fate.

'Of what good is it that I have now learnt to know Olaf Haraldsson,' she said, 'that I dream of him every night, and long for him every day? Would it not have been better if thou hadst never come hither and told me about him?'

When the Princess had spoken these words, her eyes filled with tears; but when Hjalte saw her tears, he lifted his hand fervent and eager.

'God wills it,' he cried. 'Ye belong to one another. Strife must exchange its red mantle for the white robe of peace, that your happiness may give joy unto the earth.'

When Hjalte had said this, the Princess bowed her head before God's holy name, and when she raised it, it was with a newly awakened hope.

When old Hjalte stepped through the low door of the Ladies' Bower, and went down the narrow open corridor, Astrid followed him.

'Hjalte,' she cried, 'why dost thou not ask me what I would answer if Olaf Haraldsson asked for my hand?'

It was the first time Astrid had spoken to Hjalte; but Hjalte only cast a hurried glance at the fair bondwoman, whose golden hair curled on her temples and neck, who had the broadest bracelets and the heaviest ear-rings, whose dress was fastened with silken cords, and whose bodice was so embroidered with pearls that it was as stiff as armour, and went on without answering.

'Why dost thou only ask Princess Ingegerd?' continued Astrid. 'Why dost thou not also ask me? Dost thou not know that I, too, am the Svea-King's daughter? Dost thou not know,' she continued, when Hjalte did not answer, 'that although my mother was a bondwoman, she was the bride of the King's youth? Dost thou not know that whilst she lived no one dared to remind her of her birth? Oh, Hjalte, dost thou not know that it was only after she was dead, when the King had taken to himself a Queen, that everyone remembered that she was a bondwoman? It was first after I had a stepmother that the King began to think I was not of free birth. But am I not a King's daughter, Hjalte, even if my father counts me for so little, that he has allowed me to fall into bondage? Am I not a King's daughter, even if my stepmother allowed me to go in rags, whilst my sister went in cloth of gold? Am I not a King's daughter, even if my stepmother has allowed me to tend the geese and taste the whip of the slave? And if I am a King's daughter, why dost thou not ask me whether I will wed Olaf Haraldsson? See, I have golden hair that shines round my head like the sun. See, I have sparkling eyes; I have roses in my cheeks. Why should not King Olaf woo me?'

She followed Hjalte across the courtyard all the way to the King's Hall; but Hjalte took no more heed of her words than a warrior clad in armour heeds a boy throwing stones. He took no more notice of her words than if she had been a chattering magpie in the top of a tree.

No one must think that Hjalte contented himself with having won Ingegerd for his King. The next day the old Icelander summoned up his courage and spoke to Oluf Skötkonung about Olaf Haraldsson. But he hardly had time to say a word; the King interrupted him as soon as he mentioned the name of his foe. Hjalte saw that the Princess was right. He thought he had never before seen such bitter hatred.