d of the giants!'

A roar of applause followed.

'Lift him on the shield,' cried Goderic, tearing off his buckler. 'Lift
him on the shield! Hail, Wulf king! Wulf, king of Egypt!'

And the rest of the Goths, attracted by the noise, rushed up the
tower-stairs in time to join in the mighty shout of 'Wulf, king of
Egypt!'--as careless of the vast multitude which yelled and surged
without, as boys are of the snow against the window-pane.

'No!' said Wulf solemnly, as he stood on the uplifted shield. 'If I be
indeed your king, and ye my men, wolves of the Goths, to-morrow we will
go forth of this place, hated of Odin, rank with the innocent blood of
the Alruna maid. Back to Adolf; back to our own people! Will you go?'

'Back to Adolf!' shouted the men.

'You will not leave us to be murdered?' cried one of the girls. 'The mob
are breaking the gates already!'

'Silence, silly one! Men--we have one thing to do. The Amal must not go
to the Valhalla without fair attendance.'

'Not the poor girls?' said Agilmund, who took for granted that Wulf
would wish to celebrate the Amal's funeral in true Gothic fashion by a
slaughter of slaves.

'No.... One of them I saw behave this very afternoon worthy of a Vala.
And they, too--they may make heroes' wives after all, yet .... Women are
better than I fancied, even the worst of them. No. Go down, heroes, and
throw the gates open; and call in the Greek hounds to the funeral supper
of a son of Odin.'

'Throw the gates open?'

'Yes. Goderic, take a dozen men, and be ready in the east hall.
Agilmund, go with a dozen to the west side of the court--there in the
kitchen; and wait till you hear my war-cry. Smid and the rest of you,
come with me through the stables close to the gate--as silent as Hela.'

And they went down--to meet, full on the stairs below, old Miriam.

Breathless and exhausted by her exertion, she had fallen heavily before
Philammon's strong arm; and lying half stunned for a while, recovered
just in time to meet her doom.

She knew that it was come, and faced it like herself.

'Take the witch!' said Wulf slowly--'Take the corrupter of heroes--the
cause of all our sorrows!'

Miriam looked at him with a quiet smile.

'The witch is accustomed long ago to hear fools lay on her the
consequences of their own lust and laziness.'

'Hew her down, Smid, son of Troll, that she may pass the Amal's soul and
gladden it on her way to Niflheim.'

Smid did it: but so terrible