"I, your virgin, seek to know the fate of him who stands by the altar,
one whom I love."

For a while there was quiet; then the first voice spoke, still through
the lips of Freydisa. Of this I was sure, for those of the statue
remained immovable. It was what it had always been--a thing of wood.

"Olaf, the son of Thorvald," said the deep voice, "is an enemy of us the
gods, as was his forefather whose grave he robbed. As his forefather's
fate was, so shall his be, for in both of them dwells the same spirit.
He shall worship that which is upon the hilt of the sword he stole from
the dead, and in this sign shall conquer, since it prevails against us
and makes our curse of none effect. Great sorrow shall he taste, and
great joy. He shall throw away a sceptre for a woman's kiss, and yet
gain a greater sceptre. Olaf, whom we curse, shall be Olaf the Blessed.
Yet in the end shall we prevail against his flesh and that of those who
cling to him preaching that which is upon the sword but not with the
sword, among whom thou shalt be numbered, woman--thou, and another, who
hast done him wrong."

The voice died away, and was followed by a silence so deep that at
length I could bear it no more.

"Ask of the war," I said, "and of what shall happen."

"It is too late," answered the voice of Freydisa. "I sought to know of
you, Olaf, and you alone, and now the spirit has left me."

Then came another long silence, after which Freydisa sighed thrice and