As the last words died away the hermit began to talk excitedly and volubly, and in a strain new to his guest.

“I once sang such songs,” he said.  “I sailed the seas in my long ship, and men feared my name—­feared me, Andreas, the man of God.  I was a heathen then, as thou art; I worshipped the gods of the North, and the hammer of Thor was my symbol on the ocean.  I spared none who stood in my way.  These hands have dripped with the blood of my foes, and many a widow have I left desolate.”

He paused, and a tongue of flame shot suddenly from the fire and cast a bright light in the cell.

“Fire!” cried the old man—­“fire like that have I brought on my foes!  I have burned them like rats; I have left their homesteads smouldering!  Listen, Vandrad, and I shall tell thee of a deed that made my name known throughout all the Northland.  Now,” he added, “I am a Christian man, and my soul is safe with Christ.

“Once I received an injury I swore I should avenge.  Hakon, King of Sogn, a proud man and a stern, banished my brother Kolskegg for manslaughter.  The deed was but an act of justice on one who had beguiled our kinswoman; but the dead man had many friends, and the king hearkened neither to Kolskegg’s offers of atonement nor to my petitions—­to mine, who had never asked aught of mortal man before!  My brother was a dear friend of the king, foster-father even to his eldest son Olaf, and he weakly bowed his head and left the land.  When I heard that he had gone, I pressed my sword-hilt so tightly in my rage that the blood dripped from my nails, and I cursed him aloud for idly suffering such insult to our house to pass without revenge.  Our race is as old and proud as the kings of Sogn themselves, and I vowed that Hakon should rue that day.  I was a heathen then, Vandrad.”

He said these last words with a gleam in his eyes and a tightening of his lips, as if he gloated over the memory of his bygone faith.  With the same grim reminiscent pleasure, he went on:  “I and two others sent the cloven arrow through the dales, and gathered armed men enough to fill three ships.  Ay, the sailing of Thord the Tall, Snaekol Gunnarson, and Thorfin of Skapstead is not forgotten yet in Norway.  We went to Laxafiord, for there dwelt Olaf, son of Hakon.  You have heard the tale?” he cried suddenly, “you know of the burning?”

“Go on,” said Estein, in a hard, dry voice; “I am listening,” and all the while his right hand sought his side.

“It was a deed,” said the hermit, “that made all Norway ring.  We landed in the night time, and saw the lights of the hall between the pine trees.  They were feasting, and they heard not our approach.  We made a ring round the house and heaped faggots against the walls, and still they heard us not.  It was a dark night, Vandrad, very dark, till we lit a fire that was seen by men in the outer islands.  Then they heard us, they smelt the smoke, and they ran to the doors.  The first man who came out I clove to the waist, for none in Norway had greater skill at arms than I. Then we drove them in and closed the door.  Sometimes at night I hear them shriek even now.  There was never such a burning in Norway; we spared not one soul, not one.