far corner of this hole, bound to the wall by an iron chain fastened round his middle, Steinar lay upon a bed of rushes, while on a stool beside him stood food and water. When I entered, bearing a lamp, Steinar sat up blinking his eyes, for the light, feeble as it was, hurt them, and I saw that his face was white and drawn, and the hand he held to shade his eyes was wasted. I looked at him and my heart swelled with pity, so that I could not speak.
"Why have you come here, Olaf?" asked Steinar when he knew me. "Is it to take my life? If so, never were you more welcome."
"No, Steinar, it is to bid you farewell, since to-morrow at the feast you die, and I am helpless to save you. In all things else men will obey me, but not in this."
"And would you save me if you could?"
"Aye, Steinar. Why not? Surely you must suffer enough with so much blood and evil on your hands."
"Yes, I suffer enough, Olaf. So much that I shall be glad to die. But if you are not come to kill me, then it is that you may scourge me with your tongue."
"Not so, Steinar. It is as I have said, only to bid you farewell and to ask you a question, if it pleases you to answer me. Why did you do this thing which has brought about such misery and loss, which has sent my father, my brother, and a host of brave men to the grave, and with them my mother, whose breasts nursed you?"
"Is she dead also, Olaf? Oh! my cup is full." He hid his eyes in his thin hands and sobbed, then went on: "Why did I do it? Olaf, I did not do it, but some spirit that entered into me and made me
