Sigurd responded with a deep groan. "But Ethel, girl, what madness is this? I should not be a Viking! what should I be, then? Should I wear silks, and strut about in feathers and fringeing and be a flabby courtezan? If so, I think I would prefer the Viking's Valhalla, after all; it suits the Viking best. Why won't ye go with me, Ethel, girl? Let the Norman and the slaves of Saxons have their heaven. Perhaps ye think I should drag ye over the wild hills, or through the greenwood; but I would be gentle to ye. Ye little know how I love ye, Ethel."
"My lord, your mind is very dark; I will send a priest who will instruct you in these things."
"I want never a priest, Ethel; ye can tell me best. Do ye know, Ethel, the old priest Olaf is dead? What evils have befallen our race! I fear ye prophesy rightly; the end is indeed come."
"I have no news, my lord; but I expected this."
"Yes, he is dead; he would drag his crazy limbs after us in our last struggle with the Normans; he said the gods would protect him, for he had a charmed life, and that they would fight for us and give us the victory; but we were outnumbered, my followers were all slain to a man; but the Normans were also, for I cut down the last of them. Olaf, our old priest, was also hacked to death by the enemy."
"He was the last priest of the old heathen line, and he will have no successor. The old heathenism is gone for ever, my lord."
Sigurd groaned deeply, and called in frantic tones upon the spirits of Valhalla. "Odin! Norseman's god! Can't ye help us in this pinch? can't ye help us, I say?" Then with a deep groan he sank back in complete exhaustion.
"Calm yourself, my lord, or I must leave you," said Ethel. "But Sigurd heard her not, his eyes were closed and he was evidently spent. With a feverish start, however, he opened his eyes again, and sought eagerly for the loved form of Ethel.
"Ah, I thought ye had left me. The end has come, Ethel; I shall not get well again, but I have one request; let me be buried near the sea, for I know the Vikings will come again, and I'll hear their shouts of victory and the shock of their onslaught; and, Ethel, let me be mound laid, mound laid, mark me, Ethel! then they'll know 'tis a Viking chief's grave, and the Skalds will sing of my exploits. Ethel, have my sword also laid under my head, ready, my trusty sword 'Tyrfing,' (foe-hater), we must not be parted. It's very dark, Ethel." Slowly his eyes closed, and for a little while he lay quiet; then he started up and shouted. "Down with the Normans! Ho, men! carry me out of the cave; I cannot breathe here." After this fashion for a little while the fitful struggle continued, and then in quietness the contest ended; and the last of the Vikings closed his eyes with the loved form of Ethel bending over him.