“I do not know what you would or would not have done,” she answered coldly.  “I think that Constantine is right, and that you must be what is called a saint; and, if so, saints are best in heaven, especially when they know too much on earth.  Give me that sword of yours.”

I drew the sword, saluted with it, and gave it to her.

“It is a heavy weapon,” she said.  “Whence came it?”

“From the same grave as the necklace, Augusta.”

“Ah! the necklace that your dream-woman wore.  Well, go to seek her in the land of dreams,” and she lifted the sword.

“Your pardon, Augusta, but you are about to strike with the blunt edge, which may wound but will not kill.”

She laughed a little, very nervously, and, turning the sword round in her hand, said: 

“Truly, you are the strangest of men!  Ah!  I thank you, now I have it right.  Do you understand, Olaf, I mean, Sir Saint, what sort of a story I must tell of you after I have struck?  Do you understand that not only are you about to die, but that infamy will be poured upon your name and that your body will be dragged through the streets and thrown to the dogs with the city offal?  Answer, I say, answer!”

“I understand that you must cause these things to be done for your own sake, Augusta, and I do not complain.  Lies matter nothing to me, who journey to the Land of Truth, where there are some whom I would meet again.  Be advised by me.  Strike here, where the neck joins the shoulder, holding the sword slantwise, for there even a woman’s blow will serve to sever the great artery.”

“I cannot.  Kill yourself, Olaf.”

“A week ago I’d have fallen on the sword; but now, by the rule of our faith, in such a cause I may not.  My blood must be upon your hands, for which I grieve, knowing that no other road is open to you.  Augusta, if it is worth anything to you, take my full forgiveness for the deed, and with it my thanks for all the goodness you have shown to me, but most for your woman’s favour.  In after years, perhaps, when death draws near to you also, if ever you remember Olaf, your faithful servant, you will understand much it is not fitting that I should say.  Give me one moment to make my peace with Heaven as to certain kisses.  Then strike hard and swiftly, and, as you strike, scream for your guards and women.  Your wit will do the rest.”

She lifted the sword, while, after a moment’s prayer, I bared my neck of the silk robe.  Then she let it fall again, gasping, and said: 

“Tell me first, for I am curious.  Are you no man?  Or have you forsworn woman, as do the monks?”

“Not I, Augusta.  Had I lived, some day I might have married, who would have wished to leave children behind me, since in our law marriage is allowed.  Forget not your promise as to the Bishop Barnabas, who, I fear, will weep over this seeming fall of mine.”

“So you would marry, would you?” she said, as one who speaks to herself; then thought awhile, and handed me back the sword.