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 the day following their rescue, Fiachtna asked Thorgills: “As thou art a scald, or a bard as they say in my land, canst thou not cheer us with the notes of thy harp? In my home, the harpers sang to us every day, and at evening we sang with them the Virgin’s hymn.”

Maidoch looked eagerly at Thorgills. Her lips parted as if to speak, but she was silent, although she longed to add her pleading to her father’s for the comfort of a song. Nothing could soothe her sad heart like the tender touch of music.

Thorgills brought out his harp, and as they watched him fixing the strings, Fiachtna said: “My little maid too can draw out sweet notes of music.”

“Thou canst play the harp?” Thorgills asked eagerly.

“Nay,” came from the low voice, “not the harp, but sometimes I play the lute.”

“Shall I sing the saga of King Olaf? It is the one I sang at the great fair of Dublin, when the Princess Gyda chose him for the lord of her life. Never until that morn had she beheld him, but the wisdom that dwells in a true woman’s heart, and that is wiser than