"Not so," she said, while the tears rose so fast that she could
only dimly see his face; "you are better, far better, to-night."

"I am death-doomed, Osla. Thord the Tall shall die in his bed to-
night, an old and worthless wreck. Once I had little thought of
such a death; and even now, though I die a Christian man, and my
hope is in Christ Jesus, and St. Andaman the holy, I would like
well to hear the clash of swords around me. But the doom of a man
is fated from his birth."

His daughter was silent, and the old Viking, seeming to gather
strength as he talked, went on in a strong, clear voice.

"I have heavy sins at my door. I have burned, I have slain in
battle, I have pillaged towns and devastated corn-lands. May the
Lord have mercy on my soul!

"He shall have mercy, Osla! I am saved, and the heathen I slew are
lost for ever. For the souls of the Christians who fell by this
hand I have done penance and given great gifts, and to-night these
things shall be remembered. To-night we part, Osla."

She held his great hand in both of hers, and pressed it against
her lips, and in a broken voice she said,--

"No, not to-night, not to-night."

"Ay, to-night," he said. "But before we part you must hear of one
deed that haunts me even now, though they were but heathens whom I
slew."