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 King Olaf tarried at Nidaros, Earl Sigvalde and his wife paid him full honor. Thorgills and the Irish exiles stood together on the edge of the throng surrounding the king. Fiachtna drew Maidoch close to him. “The king hath come into his own,” he said, “and we are now in the land of a great Christian monarch.” As Fiachtna spoke Thorgills watched the peaceful face of the old jarl, and the wistful eyes of the maid.

“She longs still for her Irish land,” the scald told himself. “I marvel if any other love will be strong enough to conquer her heart. She is but a child yet, and the woman’s soul hath not awakened in her. It is the child’s soul as yet.”

Thore Klakka had been completely dumbfounded by the success of Olaf. He thought he must surely be dreaming, or bewitched, when all the assembled chieftains and their vassals acknowledged Olaf for their king. The crew of the “Aastrid,” and the other ships, who had been instructed to fall upon Olaf and his men, fell back, and dared not an attack in the face of the great army of armed peasants. Thore stood like one bereft of reason, in the midst of the