"Lay the scourge aside. Perchance the boy, who has always been a heathenish worldly Saul, has become suddenly a Paul, through the grace of the holy Columban. He shall have his wish. If he holds to it--then it is a work of the saints. If his zeal flags, then it is a wile of Satan, and he shall go out again to his sheep."

But I kept silence, and said nothing about the reason for which I wished to learn.

And my zeal did not flag, and I learned Latin and Greek, and read all the books that they had in the monastery, the Christian ones of the church fathers, which they call theology, and many heathen ones, of the old world wisdom, which they call philosophy.

And I soon perceived that often, in one church father, was found just the contrary of what was in another church father.

And that Aristotle reviled Plato, and that Cicero tried to make sense of it all, and could not.

And after that I, in three, four years, had read through all the books which they had in the monastery, and had contended all night long with all the monks in the monastery, I knew no more of that which I wished to know than on the day when I had buried my dear father.

The old good-natured fat Abbot Aelfrik however--he was of n.o.ble race, and had formerly been a warrior at the court of the Scottish King, and loved me--often said to me,

"Give up these searchings Fridgifa"--for he willingly called me by my heathen name when we were alone. "Thou must believe, not question. And drink often, between whiles good ale or wine, and sing a song to the harp"--for he had taught me harp playing, in which I had great delight, and which he loved much, and everyone said that none could play the harp like me in all Scotland; "and forget not either often to throw the lance at the target in the monastery garden. Much book reading withers the body."

And I remembered that my dear father's last words had been just the same. And often and often I stole away to my dear father's hill, brought forth the hammer, exercised myself in hammer throwing by star light, and sat then for hours before the cavern, and listened to the roar of wind, wood, and wave.

And now it often seemed to me as if, in such moods, I came nearer to the truth than through all the books of the Christian priests, and heathen philosophers.

And I almost believe I shall not stay much longer in the monastery.

Especially since, lately, a skald from Halogaland visited the monastery, and told of the life at the court of King Harald; of his lordly royal hall, in which twenty skalds by turns play the harp.

And how the boldest heroes ever willingly enter his service.

And how year by year his warlike expeditions are crowned with victory.

And of Gunnlodh, his wonderfully beautiful golden-haired daughter, who pledges the bravest heroes and the best skalds in the horn.

Since then, my inclination no longer turns towards psalm-singing and vigils.

But certainly they will not easily let me leave the monastery.

For because I can write Latin and Greek well, Aaron, the new Abbot, the Italian, who has succeeded the good peace-loving Aelfrik, makes me unceasingly write out ma.n.u.scripts, which they then sell for a great price, in Britain, and even in Germany.

And Aaron is very sharp upon my track, because I seem to him to lack true Christian zeal.

And did he know that upon these parchment sheets, whereupon I ought to have written out, for the seventeenth time, the treatise of Lactantius "de mortibus persecutorum," I have, by night, written out the history of my dear father--it would not pa.s.s without many days' fasting, and some score of penitential psalms.

Lately he actually threatened me to have "some one" scourged, who ever again came too late for the Hora.

That "someone" was I. For I had just begun to write about the battle on the Singing Swan, and could not tear myself away from it when the Hora bell called.

But ere the son of Halfred the Sigskald endures scourging on the back,--rather will I slay Aaron and all his Italian monks.

But for slaying I need something different from this copying style.

Thus far had I written by Good Friday.

For a long while could I not contrive to write further. For the hatred, jealousy, and mistrust of Aaron and his hangers-on--there are many of his Italian countrymen come with him from Rumaberg--grow constantly greater. He has forbidden me to write by night.

Only by day, and in the library, no longer in my cell, may I write. And the transcript of Lactantius I am to deliver to him on the appointed parchment by Whitsuntide, on pain of seven days' fasting.

My resentment increases against this priestly tyranny.

Only rarely, and by stealth, can I get at these pages. Also I can only with great difficulty reach my dear father's hill. They track my lonely wanderings.

It will soon come to open war. At any rate I will provide myself with a sure weapon.

With difficulty did I, yesterday evening, in the sleeve of my frock, bring my dear father's hammer into the monastery. I have hidden it in the outer court, but where--that I do not trust even to these pages. I think much over the question of my dear father, and I believe that soon I shall find the truth.

For three days I could not write at all. The skald from King Harald's court has again been a guest in the monastery.

I have made him tell me all about the life at that court. It is just as in my dear father's days. Certainly King Harald and all his courtiers are heathens, and their warlike expeditions are mostly against Christian kings and bishops. But that does not make me waver in my purpose, which is firmly resolved. He told me much about Gunnlodh.

In twenty nights a ship of King Harald's will sail again into the harbour from...

I know now the answer to Halfred's question.

There are no heathen G.o.ds.

But neither is there any Christian G.o.d, who, almighty, all merciful, all wise, allowed that the father should be slain by the son.

Rather, that only happens upon earth which is necessary, and what men do and do not, that must they do and not do; as the north wind must bring cold, the south wind warmth; and as the stone thrown must fall to the earth. Why must it fall? No one knows. But it must.

But men should not sigh and question and despair, rather rejoice in hammer throwing and harp playing, in sunshine and Greek wine, and in the beauty of women.

For that is a lie that it is a sin to long for a beautiful woman.

Otherwise must the human race die out; if all become so devout as no more to long for a woman.

And the dead are dead, and no longer living.

Otherwise had the shade of my dear father long since appeared to me, at my earnest entreaty.

Of what alone, however, man should believe; of that I will speak hereafter.

Without fear shall he live, and without hope shall he die.

In this monastery, however, will I remain no longer than----.