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Rh he journeyed some twelve years ago and the wind blew him far out of his course. The Greenlanders mocked at him and said he was dreaming after too much ale,—that there was no such land ever heard of before. Bjarne’s tale was of a fair, fruitful land, where the trees and the vines did grow to the very water’s edge. Have ye, my fathers, ever heard of such a land? It was when I was wandering among the Saxons that Bjarne made his voyage.”

“My King,” answered Father Reachta, “more than five hundred years ago an Irish abbot, St. Brendan, sailed with his monks far to the west and they found a fair land where no race of Europe had ever journeyed before. Seven years St. Brendan and his monks sojourned in the new land; and they returned to Ireland to gather other priests and keep alive the faith they had planted in this new, fair land. But St. Brendan died before he did return. I have many times read the tale of St. Brendan where he tells of his journey to the strange country; and I have dreamed of following him to bring again the tidings of Christ to this beautiful, unknown land of the West. But, my King, I am an old man; and younger feet will make this journey.”

“Nay! nay! Father Reachta,” cried Olaf enthusiastically, “I will myself fit thee out a ship when thou dost return from Iceland.” Father Reachta did not answer, but he knew that at his age, there would be no journeying to unknown lands.