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Rh “Stop!” pleaded Gudrun, as if in pain. “He did command, but in all reverence.”

“Well! well!” said Ingrid, with a touch of good-humor, “I wot the rough viking too hath his moods of softness. Thou in thy beauty hath wept for him, and melted the sea-king’s strength. But have a care, my Gudrun. Olaf is but a viking after all. If thy spirit bend to his will thou wilt be but a puny queen, sitting but in sufferance at his side, and not taking thy place as one born to a throne.”

“I will not take such place at all, my mother. Have I not told thee so? And so thou must tell the king. He said our betrothal would be proclaimed, but thou, my mother, wilt tell him, the king, that I may not wed him.”

Ingrid’s voice was harsh and clear. “But thy vow, Gudrun?”

“I cannot—I cannot—told I not thee, my mother? I cannot keep my vow. I cannot wed the king to revenge thee. I so told him myself.”

“Aye, and what answer gave he? He commanded thee as thy king to wed him.” Ingrid turned to her fiercely. “Of what art thou dreaming? Hath all thy wit left thee? I tell thee, girl, thou shalt in one month be Olaf Tryggevesson’s wife, or the dreariest plain of Iceland shall hide thee, when the gossip goes forth that thou hast sought the king. Dost thou think I could endure the jeers of the men and women, who hate us so sturdily, when all the tongues of the court