But in the innermost chamber of this awful home was the abode of Raging Despair; and in the final verse of his terrible ode the scald sang: 

“Listen to the ceaseless wail,
Listen to the frenzied cry
Of anguish, horror, and amaze;
Would ye know from whom they come,
Tell me, warriors, would ye know?”

Here he paused, after throwing intense emphasis on the last words, till he had concentrated the attention of all, and the king gazed—­absorbed—­then he continued: 

“There wave on wave of bitter woe
Overwhelms the parricide.”

The king started from his seat.  He was about to launch his battle-axe through the air in search of the daring minstrel, when the same dread expression of unutterable agony we have before mentioned passed over his face; he trembled as an aspen, and sank, as one paralysed, into his chair, while his glaring eyes seemed to behold some horrid apparition unseen by all beside.  The warriors now turned in their wrath to seek the daring or unfortunate minstrel, but he was gone.

Alfgar had seen the apostate in his moment of retributive agony, and he shuddered.

“Better death, far better,” he murmured, “than a fate like this.  God keep me firm to Him.”

The king had by this time recovered his usual composure, but his rage and fury were the more awful that the outbreak was suppressed.

“Sit down, my warriors, disturb not the feast.  What if your king has been insulted in his own banquet hall? there are hands enow to avenge him without unseemly tumult.  Let us drink like the heroes in Valhalla.  Meanwhile let the minstrel be sought and brought before us, and he shall make us sport in a different mode.”

The “rista oern” whispered one in his ear.

The ferocious king nodded, and his eyes sparkled with the expected gratification of his fierce cruelty.  Meanwhile warriors were searching all the precincts of the camp for the destined victim.

Nearly half-an-hour had passed, and the king was getting impatient, for nearly all the chieftains were getting too drunk to appreciate the spectacle he designed for them.

“Why do the men delay?” he cried; “let them bring in the minstrel.”

Still he came not; and at length the searchers were forced, one after the other, to confess their failure.

“It is well,” said the king; “but it was the insult of a Christian, and shall be washed out in Christian blood.  Anlaf, produce thy son.”

“Nay, nay, not now,” cried Sidroc and others, for they saw that Sweyn was already drunk, and consideration for Anlaf made them interfere.  “Not now; tomorrow, tomorrow.”

“Nay, tonight, tonight.”

“Drink first, then, and drown care,” said Sidroc, and gave the brutal tyrant a bowl of rich mead.

He drank, drank until it was empty, then fell back and reposed with an idiotic smile superseding the ferocious expression his face had so lately worn.  Meanwhile a hand was laid upon Alfgar’s shoulder, and a keen bright eye met his own, as if to read his inmost thoughts.