Now, some whom my simple words had touched, I suppose because there was truth in them, although in those days and in that land none understood such truths, and others, because they had known and loved the open-handed Steinar, who would have given the cloak from his back to the meanest of them, cried: 

“Aye, let him go free.  There has been enough of death through this Iduna.”

But more stood silent, lost in doubt at this new doctrine.  Only Leif, my uncle, did not stand silent.  His dark face began to work as though a devil possessed him, as, indeed, I think one did.  His eyes rolled; he champed his jaws like an angry hog, and screamed: 

“Surely the lord Olaf is mad, for no sane man would talk thus.  Man may forgive while it is within his power; but this traitor has been dedicated to Odin, and can a god forgive?  Can a god spare when his nostrils are opened for the smell of blood?  If so, of what use is it to be a god?  How is he happier than a man if he must spare?  Moreover, would ye bring the curse of Odin upon you all?  I say to you—­steal his sacrifice, and you yourselves shall be sacrificed, you, your wives, your children, aye, and even your cattle and the fruit of your fields.”

When they heard this, the people groaned and shouted out: 

“Let Steinar die!  Kill him!  Kill him that Odin may be fed!”

“Aye,” answered Leif, “Steinar shall die.  See, he dies!”

Then, with a leap like to that of a hungry wolf, he sprang upon the bound man and slew him.

I see it now.  The rude temple, the glaring statue of the god, the gathered crowd, open mouthed and eyed, the spring sunshine shining quietly over all, and, running past the place, a ewe calling to the lamb that it had lost; I see the dying Steinar turn his white face, and smile a farewell to me with his fading eyes; I see Leif getting to his horrible rites that he might learn the omen, and lastly I see the red sword of the Wanderer appear suddenly between me and him, and in my hand.  I think that my purpose was to cut him down.  Only a thought arose within me.

This priest was not to blame.  He did no more than he had been taught.  Who taught him?  The god he served, through whom he gained honour and livelihood.  So the god was to blame, the god that drank the blood of men, as a thrall drinks ale, to satisfy his filthy appetite.  Could such a monster be a god?  Nay, he must be a devil, and why should free men serve devils?  At least, I would not.  I would cast him off, and let him avenge himself upon me if he could.  I, Olaf, would match myself against this god—­or devil.

I strode past Leif and the altar to where the statue of Odin sat within the temple.

“Hearken!” I said in such a voice that all lifted their eyes from the scene of butchery to me.  “You believe in Odin, do you not?”

They answered “Aye.”

“Then you believe that he can revenge himself upon one who rejects and affronts him?”