She died in Chicago on the seventh of October, 1910.
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A VIKING’S LOVE
It was long ago, when the world was so young that peace meant little more than a breathing spell between battles. At the Royal Farm of Augvaldsnes, in Norway, King Olaf Haraldsson sat at an Easter feast with his men.
Right and left on either hand the long tables stretched away, cleared of all their bounty, save two lines of brimming ale-horns. Down the middle of the hall fires burned brightly, flushing the delicate faces of the women on the cross-benches, sending the golden light higher—higher—until every shield upon the tapestried wall flashed back an answer. Overhead, through the smoke-holes between the sooty rafters, shone the still white stars.
“So, it may be, the eyes of angels look down upon our earthly pastimes,” King Olaf said thoughtfully, and his stern face softened with the satisfaction he had in a scene of such orderly good cheer. Rolling his ale on his tongue, he settled himself to listen to a man who had just risen from a place on the left of the high-seat.
Thorer Sel was the man’s name, and he was the bailiff that had this royal farm of Augvaldsnes under his management. As he stood now, a showy figure in the firelight, he would have been good to look at if his eyes had not been shifty and his mouth coarsely overbearing. He smiled jeeringly at the man who had addressed him.
“So you want to know what took place between me and your friend, Sigurd Asbiornsson, do you?” he asked.