of the newly built cathedral of Roskilde, in Zealand, where, if a zigzag
surrounds the arch, it is a great effort of genius. The Danish king
Swend, the nephew of the well-known Knut, stands before it; a stern and
powerful man, fierce and passionate, and with many a Danish axe at his
command. Nay, only lately for a few rude jests, he caused some of his
chief jarls to be slain without a trial. Half the country is still
pagan, and though the king himself is baptized, there is no certainty
that, if the Christian faith do not suit his taste, he may not join the
heathen party and return to the worship of Thor and Tyr, where deeds of
blood would be not blameworthy, but a passport to the rude joys of
Valhall. Nevertheless there is a pastoral staff across the doorway,
barring the way of the king, and that staff is held against him by an
Englishman, William, Bishop of Roskilde, the missionary who had
converted a great part of Zealand, but who will not accept Christians
who have not laid aside their sins.

He confronts the king who has never been opposed before. 'Go back,' he
says, 'nor dare approach the alter of God--thou who art not a king but a
murderer.'

Some of the jarls seized their swords and axes, and were about to strike
the bishop away from the threshold, but he, without removing his staff,
bent his head, and bade them strike, saying he was ready to die in the
cause of God. But the king came to a better frame of mind, he called the
jarls away, and returning humbly to his palace, took off his royal
robes, and came again barefoot and in sackcloth to the church door,
where Bishop William met him, took him by the hand, gave him the kiss of
peace, and led him to the penitents' place. After three days he was
absolved, and for the rest of his life, the bishop and the king lived in
the closest friendship, so much so that William always prayed that even