“My lord! my King!” she pleaded, grasping Olaf’s hand in both of her own, “what deadly danger have I brought thee? What madness for thee to venture against so strong an enemy. My King, my noble and true of heart, thy traitor friend and thy weak wife have brought thee to thy ruin.”
Olaf bent over her tenderly and spoke—how lovingly made in after days the wound that cut off the thread of life.
“Nay! nay! dear wife! Now thou shouldst weep no more. I have already gained thee what was due to thee in Wendland. To-day will I combat with thy brother Sweyn, for the tooth-gift thou hast so often craved of me,—for all thy lands in Denmark.”
“My King! my Olaf! my lord!” Thyra’s voice rang sharply in its keen tone of suffering, “I want not any lands. What will my estates be when thou art gone? Thou, so noble, so patient, for my weak complaining, must be lost to thy Norway and to thy wife.”
Thorgills standing in silence heard in his own soul the echo of the poor queen’s sorrow. “My King! my King!” he groaned under his breath, “thy great heart and thy great truth, that stoop not to see the false faith around thee, have led thee to thy doom.”
Olaf swept his glance over the enemy’s line, and noting their swift preparations for battle, he took Thyra’s hand and led her to her cabin. As he started to ascend the deck, Thyra sprang after him. She
