IN THE CELL BY THE ROOST.


On the rocky shore of the Holy Isle, Osla sat alone. The spell of
summer weather had passed from the islands, and in its wake the
wind blew keenly from the north, and the grey cloud-drift hurried
low overhead. All colour had died out of land and sea; the hills
looked naked and the waters cold.

And Vandrad, the sea-rover, had gone with the sunshine--had gone,
never so Osla said to herself, to return again.

She rose and tried to give her thoughts a lighter turn, but the
note of the north wind smote drearily upon her ears, and she left
the sea-shore with a sigh. For seven uneventful years she had
found in the sea a friend of whom she never tired, and on the
little island duties enough to make the days pass swiftly by. Why
should the time now hang heavy on her hands?

She walked slowly to the wind-swept cells. Her father sat within,
the blackness of night upon his soul, the Viking fire now burned
completely out.

She tried to rouse him, but he answered only in absent
monosyllables. Again she sought the solace of the sea, but never,
it seemed to her, had it looked so cold and so unfriendly.

"Why did he ever come at all?" she said.

And so the days went by; summer changed to autumn, and autumn gave