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 passed 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. God
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 passed, 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 sup