pages, at their head, was a man so radiantly handsome, of such majestic beauty, that they almost held their breath in awe. Upon a milk-white steed he sat, wearing over his armor of steel and gold a flowing crimson cloak. A helmet with its glittering wings outpoised rested on his long, tawny locks.
Forgetting her place of dignity as lady of the mansion waiting to receive a royal guest, forgetting the crowd, the excitement, the publicity of the pageant, forgetting all things except that this man of such wondrous beauty and valorous renown, was her own, her very own, Aastrid swept down the long stone steps, her rich silken robe floating after her, and the hood blown back from her fair hair. No maiden of sixteen could move with lighter grace than did the mother of that happy monarch watching her with eager, loving eyes. Olaf reined in his horse and sprang to the ground. He folded Aastrid in his arms and rested her head upon his broad shoulder; then stooped and kissed her with utmost tenderness.
“My son! my son! my son!” she sobbed, and out of his full heart he could but find the words, “My mother! my mother! my mother!”
Then a strong wave of sound broke over the throng, as hundreds of voices shouted: “A wassail to King Olaf! A wassail to our own king! We were his father’s vassals, and we are his, in the kingdom of his father. A wassail to the son of Trygge Olafsson!”
