Following the current, she made swift way across the dark water
in the direction of the island of Seiland, and presently became a
wondrous Ship of Fire! Fire flashed from her masts--fire folded up her
spars and sails in a devouring embrace,--fire, that leaped and played
and sent forth a million showering sparks hissingly into the waves
beneath.
With beating heart and straining eyes, Valdemar Svensen crouched on the
pier-head, watching, in mute agony, the burning vessel. He had fulfilled
his oath!--that strange vow that had so sternly bound him,--a vow that
was the outcome of his peculiar traditions and pagan creed.
Long ago, in the days of his youth,--full of enthusiasm for the worship
of Odin and the past splendors of the race of the great Norse
warriors,--he had chosen to recognize in Olaf Gueldmar a true descendant
of kings, who was by blood and birth, though not in power, himself a
king,--and tracing his legendary history back to old and half-forgotten
sources, he had proved, satisfactorily, to his own mind, that he,
Svensen, must lawfully, and according to old feudal system, be this
king's serf or vassal.
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