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 the day, while they feasted, Olaf and Sigvalde went back and forth on their respective ships. They had planned to move homeward on the following day, Olaf under Earl Sigvalde’s guidance. The warm-hearted king was rejoiced at the return to friendship of the Earl of the Jomsvikings.

That night, after all on board the two fleets had retired, Olaf stood at watch on the elevated loftingen deck, outside his sleeping-room. It was a soft spring night and the earth, dimly seen on the shore, and the sky dazzling with astral light, and the sea silvered with stars, all seemed marvellously beautiful to the brave-souled king, steering so unconsciously to the dismal doom of defeat.

The sound of muffled oars came to Olaf’s ear. He walked over to the side of the ship. In a small boat, sat two oarsmen and two women, closely cloaked and veiled.

“My King! My King!” pleadingly called the voice of the taller woman. Olaf leaned over and the voice went on: “It is I—thy kinswoman, Aastrid. O my kinsman! my King! for the sake of thy dead mother