In the middle of the dale, and distant a few hundred yards from the beach, rises the eminence that for centuries has borne the name of Ormfell, an eminence circular at the base, about fifty feet in height, and covered with green turf.
Upon this hillock Idris was now gazing with deep interest.
It was a beautiful summer morning, and with Beatrice for his companion he had come to take a view of the tumulus, preliminary to the task of breaking into it at night.
"We want no geologist," he remarked, "to tell us that this is an artificial elevation. Nature never carved out this pyramid; it has been raised by the hand of man. This is the 'lofty tomb' spoken of on the runic ring. Within the heart of this tumulus we shall find all that remains of old Orm the Viking."
Beatrice shared fully in his enthusiasm. She had seen the mound many a time, but now the words on the runic ring had invested the spot with a new and mysterious charm.
"Orm's warriors were men with a taste for the picturesque," she said. "They could not have chosen a prettier place for the grave of their hero."
"Ay, close to the sea, that he doubtless loved well, as became a Norse Viking. And here for ages he has remained in solitary glory, with the surge forever murmuring his requiem."
"This is certainly a tremendous mass of earth to pile over one poor mortal," said Beatrice, contemplating the mound.
"Every vassal was supposed to contribute one helmetful of soil to the grave of his chieftain."
"Judged by that test Orm must have had a pretty numerous following," said Beatrice.