Part 15 (1/2)

”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 cla.s.s--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?”

Here he paused, after throwing intense emphasis on the last words, till he had concentrated the attention of all, and the king gazed--absorbed--then he continued:

”There wave on wave of bitter woe Overwhelms the parricide.”

The king started from his seat. He was about to launch his battle-axe through the air in search of the daring minstrel, when the same dread expression of unutterable agony we have before mentioned pa.s.sed over his face; he trembled as an aspen, and sank, as one paralysed, into his chair, while his glaring eyes seemed to behold some horrid apparition unseen by all beside. The warriors now turned in their wrath to seek the daring or unfortunate minstrel, but he was gone.

Alfgar had seen the apostate in his moment of retributive agony, and he shuddered.

”Better death, far better,” he murmured, ”than a fate like this. G.o.d keep me firm to Him.”

The king had by this time recovered his usual composure, but his rage and fury were the more awful that the outbreak was suppressed.

”Sit down, my warriors, disturb not the feast. What if your king has been insulted in his own banquet hall? there are hands enow to avenge him without unseemly tumult. Let us drink like the heroes in Valhalla. Meanwhile let the minstrel be sought and brought before us, and he shall make us sport in a different mode.”

The ”rista oern” whispered one in his ear.

The ferocious king nodded, and his eyes sparkled with the expected gratification of his fierce cruelty. Meanwhile warriors were searching all the precincts of the camp for the destined victim.

Nearly half-an-hour had pa.s.sed, and the king was getting impatient, for nearly all the chieftains were getting too drunk to appreciate the spectacle he designed for them.

”Why do the men delay?” he cried; ”let them bring in the minstrel.”

Still he came not; and at length the searchers were forced, one after the other, to confess their failure.

”It is well,” said the king; ”but it was the insult of a Christian, and shall be washed out in Christian blood. Anlaf, produce thy son.”

”Nay, nay, not now,” cried Sidroc and others, for they saw that Sweyn was already drunk, and consideration for Anlaf made them interfere. ”Not now; tomorrow, tomorrow.”

”Nay, tonight, tonight.”

”Drink first, then, and drown care,” said Sidroc, and gave the brutal tyrant a bowl of rich mead.

He drank, drank until it was empty, then fell back and reposed with an idiotic smile superseding the ferocious expression his face had so lately worn. Meanwhile a hand was laid upon Alfgar's shoulder, and a keen bright eye met his own, as if to read his inmost thoughts.

”Come with me, or my father will disgrace himself.”