touched his hands. They felt his garments as if doubting his actual presence. No time was lost, even for curiosity or enthusiasm. Too long had they waited for this precious hour to lose one moment of it. Besides, had not Thane Sigvalde been preparing them for months for Olaf’s coming! So faithfully had he guarded his kinsman’s rights that all Norway was ready to proclaim Olaf as king.
When Olaf stood in their midst, Earl Sigvalde shouted aloud: “Norsemen! Your North Star has risen!”
Then the Tronders and the peasants of Viken, the sympathizers of Brynjulf, led by Orme Lyrja, and the hinds of Gauldale, shouted back: “A wassail to King Olaf!”
Some one brought a bronze drinking-horn to the king. Olaf turned to the enthusiastic crowd. “What shall the pledge be?” he asked.
“Death to Jarl Haakon!” they answered in thunder tones.
Olaf drained the horn. It was filled again, and he lifted it. to his lips. “What other pledge shall I give? What other toast shall I drink?”
“The light of the North Star in Norraway!” they shouted. “A wassail to our true king!”
Olaf did not drink the toast. He stood in all his majestic beauty, looking down, for he towered over them all, at the myriad faces before him. The drinking-horns were lifted expectantly, waiting for
