He sighed a little, and, passing his sinewy hand across his brow, lay back exhausted. He was racked by bodily torture, but,—unflinching old hero as he was,—gave no sign of the agonizing pain he suffered. Valdemar Svensen had risen from his knees, and now stood gazing at him with yearning, miserable eyes, his brown, weather-beaten visage heavily marked with lines of grief and despair. He knew that he was utterly powerless—that nothing could save the noble life that was ebbing slowly away before him. His long and varied experience as a sailor, pilot, and traveller in many countries had given him some useful knowledge of medicine and surgery, and if anything was possible to be done, he could do it. But in this case no medical skill would have been availing—the old man's ribs were crushed in and his spine injured,—his death was a question of but a few hours at the utmost, if so long.
"Olaf the King!" muttered the bonde presently, "True! They make no mistakes yonder,—they know each warrior by name and rank—'tis only in this world we are subject to error. This world! By the gods! . . . 'tis but a puff of thistle-down—or a light mist floating from the sunset to the sea!"
He made a vigorous attempt to raise himself from his pillow—though the excruciating anguish caused by his movement, made him wince a little and grow paler.
"Wine, Valdemar! Fill the horn cup to the brim and bring it to me—I must have strength to speak—before I depart—on the last great journey."
Obediently and in haste, Svensen filled the cup he asked for with old Lacrima Christi, of which there was always a supply in this far Northern abode, and gave it to him, watching him with a sort of superstitious reverence as he drained off its contents and returned it empty.
"Ah! That warms this freezing blood of mine," he said, the lustre flashing back into his eyes. "'Twill find fresh force to flow a brief while longer. Valdemar—I have little time to spend with thee—I feel death here"—and he slightly touched his chest—"cold—cold and heavy. 'Tis nothing—a passing, chilly touch that sweeps away the world! But the warmth of a new, strong life awaits me—a life of never-ending triumph! The doors of Valhalla stand wide open—I heard the trumpet-call last night—I saw the dark-haired Valkyrie! All is well—and my soul is full of rejoicing. Valdemar—there is but one thing now thou hast to do for me,—the one great service thou hast sworn to render. Fulfill thine oath!"
Valdemar's brown cheek blanched,—his lips quivered,—he flung up his hands in wild appeal. The picturesque flow of his native speech gained new fervor and eloquence as he spoke.
"Not yet—not yet, my lord!" he cried passionately. "Wait but a little—there is time. Think for one moment—think! Would it not be well for my lord to sleep the last sleep by the side of his beloved Thelma—the star of the dark mountains—the moonbeam of the night of his life? Would not peace enwrap him there as with a soft garment, and would not his rest be lulled by the placid murmur of the sea? For the days of old time and storm and victory are past—and the dead slumber as stones in the silent pathways—why would my lord depart in haste as though he were wrathful, from the land he has loved?—from the vassal who implores his pardon for pleading against a deed he dares not do!"
"Dares not—dares not!" cried the bonde, springing up half-erect from his couch, in spite of pain, and looking 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.