"Let us sit here, Osla," he said. "I have a new song to sing you."

"I must bake my cakes," she answered. "Can you not sing it to us
to-night?"

"It concerns only you. Sit here but for a moment; it is not long,
and you can escape from me when I have done."

"Very well," she said, with a smile and an air of resignation. "I
will listen, but do not keep me long."

"If it will tire you, I can wait."

"You can try me."

"I must leave the Holy Isle soon, Osla; I have been too long away
from my kinsfolk and my country. It is hard to part, but it must
come some day, and these verses are my parting song."

She was silent, and seemed intently plucking sea pinks.

"I cannot tell you why," he went on, "but to-day I feel that my
hour has come to rove again. I would that I might live here for
ever, but I know it is not fated so."

Then he sang his farewell song:--

"Canst thou spare a sigh, fair Osla? It is fated I must go. Wilt
thou think of Vandrad ever When the sea winds hoarsely blow, Or