The book that Idris had been reading contained an account of the Norse mode of sacrificing: and so with his eye still on the dark stain, he said:—
"Mother, didn't the old Norsemen sometimes offer up men on their altars?"
"Sometimes they did."
"Then this stain may be a man's blood?"
"It is very likely."
"Perhaps the very blood of Odin, made when he gave himself the nine wounds," said Idris, in a tone of glee, and fascinated by the ring, as children often are fascinated by things gruesome. "What a long time the stain has lasted! But it can't be Odin's blood," he continued, with an air of mournfulness: "the stain would have worn off long ago.—I would like to know whose blood it is!"
"Hush! Hush! We do not yet know that it is human blood. Come, you must not talk any more about such dreadful things."
And sensible that the conversation had taken a turn not at all suited to a tender mind, Mrs. Breakspear tried to divert his thoughts. Putting away the altar-ring, she seated herself beside him, and drawing him partly within her embrace, she said, "Now what shall I talk about?"—which was her usual preface when beginning his instruction in history, geography, and the like.
"Tell me about Vikings—all about them," he replied with the air of one capable of taking in the whole cycle of Scandinavian lore.
As Mrs. Breakspear had made a study of Northern history, she was able to gratify her little son's request by regaling him with a variety of tales drawn from Icelandic sagas and early Saxon chronicles. For more than two hours Idris sat entranced, listening to the doings, good and bad, of the famous sea-kings of old.