A man rushed by him at a single stride, Haggard, half naked, without hat or cloak,

Who neither turned, nor looked at him, nor spoke,

But leaped into the blackness of the night,

And vanished like a spectre from his sight.

Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, Despoiled of his magnificent attire, Bareheaded, breathless, and besprent with mire,

With sense of wrong and outrage desperate,

Strode on and thundered at the palace gate;

Rushed through the courtyard, thrusting in his rage

To right and left each seneschal and

"I am the King, and come to claim my own From an impostor, who usurps my throne!"

And suddenly, at these audacious words, Up sprang the angry guests, and drew their swords ;

The Angel answered, with unruffled brow, 'Nay, not the King, but the King's Jester, thou

Henceforth shall wear the bells and scalloped cape,

And for thy counsellor shalt lead an ape; Thou shalt obey my servants when they call,

And wait upon my henchmen in the hall!"

Deaf to King Robert's threats and cries and prayers,

They thrust him from the hall and down the stairs;

A group of tittering pages ran before, And as they opened wide the foldingdoor,

His

heart failed, for he heard, with strange alarmis,

The boisterous laughter of the men-at

him there

Kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in silent prayer.

INTERLUDE.

A Saga of the days of old.
AND then the blue-eyed Norseman told

Of Legends in the old Norse tongue,
"There is," said he, "a wondrous book
Of the dead kings of Norroway,
Legends that once were told or sung
Of Iceland, in the ancient day,
In many a smoky fireside nook
By wandering Saga-man or Scald ;
Heimskringla is the volume called;
The story that I now begin."
And he who looks may find therein

Upon his violin he played,
And in each pause the story made
Fragments of old Norwegian tunes
As an appropriate interlude,
That bound in one the separate runes,
And held the mind in perfect mood,
The strange and antiquated rhymes
Entwining and encircling all
With melodies of olden times;
As over some half-ruined wall,
Disjointed and about to fall,
Fresh woodbines climb and interlace,
And keep the loosened stones in place.

THE MUSICIAN'S TALE.

THE SAGA OF KING OLAF.

I.

THE CHALLENGE OF THOR.

I AM the God Thor,
I am the War God,
I am the Thunderer!
Here in my Northland,
My fastness and fortress,
Reign I forever!

Here amid icebergs Rule I the nations; This is my hammer, Miölner the mighty; Giants and sorcerers Cannot withstand it !

These are the gauntlets
Wherewith I wield it,
And hurl it afar off;
This is my girdle;
Whenever I brace it,
Strength is redoubled!

The light thou beholdest
Stream through the heavens,
In flashes of crimson,
Is but my red beard
Blown by the night-wind,
Affrighting the nations !

Jove is my brother;
Mine eyes are the lightning;
The wheels of my chariot
Roll in the thunder,
The blows of my hammer
Ring in the earthquake!

Force rules the world still,
Has ruled it, shall rule it;
Meekness is weakness,
Strength is triumphant,
Over the whole earth
Still is it Thor's-Day!

Thou art a God too,
O Galilean!

And thus single-handed
Unto the combat,
Gauntlet or Gospel,
Here I defy thee!

II.

KING OLAF'S RETURN.

AND King Olaf heard the cry,
Saw the red light in the sky,

Laid his hand upon his sword,
As he leaned upon the railing,
And his ships went sailing, sailing
Northward into Drontheim fiord.

There he stood as one who dreamed;
And the red light glanced and gleamed
On the armor that he wore ;
And he shouted, as the rifted
Streamers o'er him shook and shifted,
"I accept thy challenge, Thor!"

To avenge his father slain,
And reconquer realm and reign,

Came the youthful Olaf home, Through the midnight sailing, sailing,

Listening to the wild wind's wailing,
And the dashing of the foam.

To his thoughts the sacred name
Of his mother Astrid came,

And the tale she oft had told
Of her flight by secret passes
Through the mountains and morasses,
To the home of Hakon old.

Then strange memories crowded back
Of Queen Gunhild's wrath and wrack,
And a hurried flight by sea;
Of grim Vikings, and the rapture
Of the sea-fight, and the capture,
And the life of slavery.

How a stranger watched his face
In the Esthonian market-place,

Scanned his features one by one, Saying, "We should know each other; I am Sigurd, Astrid's brother,

Thou art Olaf, Astrid's son !' Then as Queen Allogia's page, Old in honors, young in age,

Chief of all her men-at-arms;
Till vague whispers, and mysterious,
Reached King Valdemar, the imperious,
Filling him with strange alarmis.

Then his cruisings o'er the seas,
Westward to the Hebrides,

And to Scilly's rocky shore;
And the hermit's cavern dismal,
Christ's great name and rites baptismal
In the ocean's rush and roar.

All these thoughts of love and strife
Glimmered through his lurid life,
As the stars' intenser light
Through the red flames o'er him trailing,
As his ships went sailing, sailing,

Northward in the summer night.

Trained for either camp or court,
Skilful in each manly sport,

Young and beautiful and tall;
Art of warfare, craft of chases,
Swimming, skating, snow-shoe races,
Excellent alike in all.

When at sea, with all his rowers, He along the bending oars

Outside of his ship could run. He the Smalsor Horn ascended, And his shining shield suspended On its summit, like a sun.

On the ship-rails he could stand, Wield his sword with either hand, And at once two javelins throw; At all feasts where ale was strongest Sat the merry monarch longest,

First to come and last to go.

Norway never yet had seen
One so beautiful of mien,

One so royal in attire,
When in arms completely furnished,
Harness gold-inlaid and burnished,
Mantle like a flame of fire.

Thus came Olaf to his own, When upon the night-wind blown Passed that cry along the shore; And he answered, while the rifted Streamers o'er him shook and shifted, "I accept thy challenge, Thor!"

III.

THORA OF RIMOL.

"THORA of Rimol! hide me! hide me! Danger and shame and death betide me! For Olaf the King is hunting me down Through field and forest, through thorp and town!"

Thus cried Jarl Hakon

To Thora, the fairest of women.

Hakon Jarl ! for the love I bear thee Neither shall shame nor death come near thee!

But the hiding-place wherein thou must

lie

Is the cave underneath the swine in the sty."

Thus to Jarl Hakon

Said Thora, the fairest of women.

So Hakon Jarl and his base thrall Karker Crouched in the cave, than a dungeon darker,

As Olaf came riding, with men in mail, Through the forest roads into Orkadale, Demanding Jarl Hakon

Of Thora, the fairest of women.

"Rich and honored shall be whoever The head of Hakon Jarl shall dissever! Hakon heard him, and Karker the slave, Through the breathing-holes of the dark

some cave.

Alone in her chamber

Wept Thora, the fairest of women.

Said Karker, the crafty, "I will not slay thee!

For all the king's gold I will never betray thee!

"Then why dost thou turn so pale, O churl,

And then again black as the earth?" said the Earl.

More pale and more faithful

Was Thora, the fairest of women.

From a dream in the night the thrall started, saying, "Round my neck a gold ring King Olaf was laying!'

And Hakon answered, "Beware of the king!

He will lay round thy neck a blood-red ring."

At the ring on her finger

Gazed Thora, the fairest of women.