en are
our forefathers? that their blood runs in the veins of perhaps three men
out of four in any general assembly, whether in America or in Britain?
Startling as the assertion may be, I believe it to be strictly true.

Be that as it may, I cannot read the stories of your western men, the
writings of Bret Harte, or Colonel John Hay, for instance, without
feeling at every turn that there are the old Norse alive again, beyond
the very ocean which they first crossed, 850 years ago.

Let me try to prove my point, and end with a story, as I began with one.

It is just thirty years before the Norman conquest of England, the
evening of the battle of Sticklestead. St. Olaf's corpse is still lying
unburied on the hillside. The reforming and Christian king has fallen in
the attempt to force Christianity and despotism on the Conservative and
half-heathen party--the free bonders or yeoman-farmers of Norway.
Thormod, his poet--the man, as his name means, of thunder mood--who has
been standing in the ranks, at last has an arrow in his left side. He
breaks off the shaft, and thus sore wounded goes up, when all is lost, to
a farm where is a great barn full of wounded. One Kimbe comes, a man out
of the opposite or bonder part. "There is great howling and screaming in
there," he says. "King Olaf's men fought bravely enough: but it is a
shame brisk young lads cannot bear their wounds. On what side wert thou
in the fight?" "On the best side," says the beaten Thormod. Kimbe sees
that Thormod has a good bracelet on his arm. "Thou art surely a king's
man. Give me thy gold ring and I will hide thee, ere the bonders kill
thee."

Thormod said, "Take it, if thou canst get it. I have lost that which is
worth more;" and he stretched out his left hand, and Kimbe tried to take
it. But Thormod, swinging his sword, cut off his hand; and it is said
Kimbe behaved no better over his wound than those he had been blaming.

Then Thormod went into the barn; and after he had sung his song there in
praise of his dead king, he went into an inner room, where was a fire,
and water warming, and a handsome girl binding up men's wounds. And he
sat down by the door; and one said to him, "Why art thou so dead pale?
Why dost thou not call for the leech?" Then sung Thormod:

"I am not blooming; and the fair
And slender maiden loves to care
For blooming youths. Few care for me,
With Fenri's gold meal I can't fee;"

and so forth, improv