How strange it was that after all my vision had been fulfilled and it had been my lot to meet her of whom I had dreamed, wearing that necklace of which I had found one-half upon the Wanderer in his grave-mound.  Were I and the Wanderer the same spirit, I asked of myself, and she of the dream and Heliodore the same woman?

Who could tell?  At least this was sure, from the moment that first we saw one another we knew we belonged each to each for the present and the future.  Therefore, as it was with these we had to do, the past might sleep and all its secrets.

Now we had met but to be parted again by death, which seemed hard indeed.  Yet since we had met, for my part Fate had my forgiveness for I knew that we should meet again.  I looked back on what I had done and left undone, and could not blame myself overmuch.  True, it would have been wiser if I had stayed by Irene and Heliodore, and not led that charge against the Greeks.  Only then, as a soldier, I should never have forgiven myself, for how could I stand still while my comrades fought for me?  No, no, I was glad I had led the charge and led it well, though my life must pay its price.  Nor was this so.  I must die, not because I had lifted sword against Irene’s troops, but for the sin of loving Heliodore.

After all, what was life as we knew it?  A passing breath!  Well, as the body breathes many million times between the cradle and the grave, so I believed the soul must breathe out its countless lives, each ending in a form of death.  And beyond these, what?  I did not know, yet my new-found faith gave me much comfort.

In such meditations and in sleep I passed my hours, waiting always until the door of my cell should open and through it appear, not the jailer with my food, which I noted was plentiful and delicate, but the executioners or mayhap the tormentors.

At length it did open, somewhat late at night, just as I was about to lay myself down to rest, and through it came a veiled woman.  I bowed and motioned to my visitor to be seated on the stool that was in the cell, then waited in silence.  Presently she threw off her veil, and in the light of the lamp showed that I stood before the Empress Irene.

“Olaf,” she said hoarsely, “I am come here to save you from yourself, if it may be so.  I was hidden in yonder Court, and heard all that passed at your trial.”

“I guessed as much, Augusta,” I said, “but what of it?”

“For one thing, this:  The coward and fool, who now is dead—­of his wounds—­who gave evidence as to the killing of the three other cowards by you, has caused my name to become a mock throughout Constantinople.  Aye, the vilest make songs upon me in the streets, such songs as I cannot repeat.”

“I am grieved, Augusta,” I said.

“It is I who should grieve, not you, who are told of as a man who grew weary of the love of an Empress, and cast her off as though she were a tavern wench.  That is the first matter.  The second is that under the finding of the Court of Justice——­”