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 after his coronation, Olaf was engaged one morning in his council chamber with a Greek priest named Sergius. Thorgills the bard had been singing to the king, and the priest had been reading aloud from a pile of books before him.

Olaf was seated, Saxon fashion, in a high carved chair, his feet resting upon the skin of a white bear. Seeing him unsurrounded by any signs of royalty, we are impressed with the native majesty of the grand viking. His year of reigning seemed to have added new power to the tall form, and new suppleness to the sinewy frame. His golden brown beard, curling about his lips, hung over his broad chest like wheat in the autumn. His blue eyes were as keen as swords, and the line from the wide forehead, along the length of the nose, was almost without a curve. His position, though one of ease, was full of latent strength. Something light brown and shaggy and strong and fleet about Olaf, suggested a red Irish setter,—even the appealing look which he would turn to Thorgills when some question of state that could not be decided with a swift stroke troubled his mind. A knock was heard, and Jarl Sigvalde entered.