nduring mortal agony
for Christ, so patiently, so calmly. Had Bertric, then, died for
nought? He felt as if the martyr were near him, to aid him in this
moment, when his faith was in peril.

"O Bertric, Bertric!" he cried, "intercede for me, pray for me."

He fell on his knees, and did not rise until the temptation was
conquered, and then he walked steadily into the great vaulted room, of
Roman construction, which served as the banqueting hall, and took his
usual place by his father's side.

Oh, how hollow the mirth and revelry that night! How he loathed the
singing, the drunken shouting, the fierce imprecation over the wine
cup--the sensuality, which now distinguished his bloodthirsty
companions. The very knives he saw used for their meals had served as
daggers to despatch the wounded or the helpless prisoner. The eyes,
now weak with debauch, had glowed with the maniacal fury of the
berserkir in the battlefield. Was this the glory of manhood? Nay,
rather of wolves and bears.

Then he looked up at Sweyn, the murderer of his father, and marvelled
that his hand was yet so steady--his head so clear. This apostate
parricide! never would he live to kiss the hand of such a man; better
die at once, while yet pure from innocent blood. This his Christianity
had taught him.

"Minstrel," cried the fierce king, "sing us some stirring song of the
days of old; plenty of the fire of the old Vikings in it."

A strange minstrel, a young gleeman, had been admitted that night--one
whose chain and robes bespoke him of the privileged class--and he sang
in a voice which thrilled all the revellers into awed silence. He sang
of the battle, of the joy of conquest, and the glories of Valhalla,
where deceased warriors drank mead from the skulls of vanquished foes.
And then he sang of the cold and snowy Niffelheim, where in regions of
eternal frost the cowardly and guilty dead mourned their weak and
wasted lives. In words of terrific force he painted their agony, where
Hela, of horrid countenance, reigned supreme; where the palace was
Anguish, Famine the board, Delay and Vain Hope the waiters, Precipice
the threshold, and Leanness the bed.

But in the innermost chamber of this awful home was the abode of
Raging Despair; and in the final verse of his terrible ode the scald
sang:

"Listen to the ceaseless wail,
Listen to the frenzied cry
Of anguish, horror, and amaze;
Would ye know from whom they come,
Tell me, warriors, would ye know?"