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 taper burned dimly in the king’s tent at Rimul, and the drowsy guards had fallen asleep. Without in the darkness a shadowy figure was creeping to the opening of the tent. Father Meilge was walking alone a little distance away. Sleep had deserted him. His heart was heavy and a cloud of depressing thought surrounded him. The hunger for his own fair land and the peaceful, holy scenes of his youth was strong upon him. His sensitive soul had been wounded by contact with the coarse lives around him. A sense of impending evil haunted him, and drove him forth to meet some coming danger.

As Father Meilge walked under the stars, dazzling in their Northern splendor, he came to the tent of the king. A bent form was crawling into the opening. Father Meilge hastened his steps and followed the muffled figure into the tent. Fast bound in the fetters of sleep lay the king upon his couch. Upon his breast, and catching the faint reflection of the taper in a starry point, shone Olaf’s golden crucifix, as if giving a luminous mark for the murderer’s knife that shone overhead. The crouching figure had risen to strike the blow.