And he died.
The blackbird ceased singing in the bush. And as the sun sank, one warm full flood of his rays streamed full upon that mighty face.
Thus died the son of Oski.
[CHAPTER XVIII.]
When now my dear father was dead, whom I myself had slain, I wept bitterly, and lay all night by the side of the dead.
And when the sun again arose I considered what I should now do.
At first I thought I would drive the flock to the monastery, which lay some six stages distant, and relate all to the monks, and confess how I had, all unwittingly, slain my own father; and beg for absolution for myself, and for a Christian grave for my dear father.
But I bethought me that the monks would not bury my father with Christian honours, since he had died a heathen. And neither would they allow me to burn him, after the custom of the heathen people, because the heathen gods would thus be brought much into remembrance. And they would certainly throw him, unhonoured, into the sea, as they had already done to a heathen from Zealand.
So I resolved to be silent about it all, and not to betray my dear dead father to the priests.
And thus could I neither confess the death blow, nor receive counsel respecting my guiltless crime.