like some enraged old lion with
his tossed, streaming hair and glittering eyes. "Serf as thou art and
coward! Thinkest thou an oath such as thine is but a thread of hair, to
be snapped at thy pleasure? Wilt thou brave the wrath of the gods and
the teeth of the Wolf of Nastrond? As surely as the seven stars shine on
the white brow of Thor, evil shall be upon thee if thou refusest to
perform the vow thou hast sworn! And shall a slave have strength to
resist the dying curse of a King?"

The pride, the supreme authority,--the magnified strength of command
that flushed the old man's features, were extraordinary and almost
terrible in their impressive grandeur. If he indeed believed himself by
blood a king and a descendant of kings,--he could not have shown a more
forcible display of personal sovereignty. The effect of his manner on
Valdemar was instantaneous,--the superstitious fears of that bronzed
sea-wanderer were easily aroused. His head drooped--he stretched out his
hands imploringly.

"Let not my lord curse his servant," he faltered. "It was but a tremor
of the heart that caused my tongue to speak foolishly. I am ready--I
have sworn--the oath shall be kept to its utmost end!"

Olaf Gueldmar's threatening countenance relaxed, and he fell back on his
pillows.

"It is well!" he said feebly and somewhat indistinctly. "Thy want of
will maddened me--I spoke and lived in times that are no more--days of
battle--and--glory--that are gone--from men--for ever. More wine,
Valdemar!--I must keep a grip on this slippery life--and yet--I
wander--wander into the--night--"

His voice ceased, and he sank into a swoon--a swoon that was like death.
His breathing was scarcely perceptible, and Svensen, alarmed at his
appearance, forced some drops of wine between his set lips, and chafed
his cold hands with anxious solicitude. Slowly and very gradually he
recovered consciousness and intelligence, and presently asked for a
pencil and paper to write a few farewell words to his daughter. In the
grief and bewilderment of the time, Valdemar entirely forgot to tell him
that a letter from Thelma had arrived for him on the previous afternoon
while he was away at Talvig,--and was even now on the shelf above the
chimney, awaiting perusal. Gueldmar, ignorant of this, began to write
slowly and with firmness, disregarding his rapidly sinking strength.
Scarcely had he begun the letter, however, than he looked up meaningly
at Svensen, who stood waiti