"Oh! life is sweet," thought he, "sweet to one so young as I. I have but tasted the cup; shall I throw it down not half empty?" He was almost conquered. He had all but turned to seek his father, when suddenly the remembrance of Bertric flashed vividly upon him. He saw, as in a vision, the patient, brave lad enduring mortal agony for Christ, so patiently, so calmly. Had Bertric, then, died for nought? He felt as if the martyr were near him, to aid him in this moment, when his faith was in peril. "O Bertric, Bertric!" he cried, "intercede for me, pray for me." He fell on his knees, and did not rise until the temptation was conquered, and then he walked steadily into the great vaulted room, of Roman construction, which served as the banqueting hall, and took his usual place by his father's side. Oh, how hollow the mirth and revelry that night! How he loathed the singing, the drunken shouting, the fierce imprecation over the wine cup--the sensuality, which now distinguished his bloodthirsty companions. The very knives he saw used for their meals had served as daggers to despatch the wounded or the helpless prisoner. The eyes, now weak with debauch, had glowed with the maniacal fury of the berserkir in the battlefield. Was this the glory of manhood? Nay, rather of wolves and bears. Then he looked up at Sweyn, the murderer of his father, and marvelled that his hand was yet so steady--his head so clear. This apostate parricide! never would he live to kiss the hand of such a man; better die at once, while yet pure from innocent blood. This his Christianity had taught him. "Minstrel," cried the fierce king, "sing us some stirring song of the days of old; plenty of the fire of the old Vikings in it." A strange minstrel, a young gleeman, had been admitted that night--one whose chain and robes bespoke him of the privileged class--and he sang in a voice which thrilled all the revellers into awed silence. He sang of the battle, of the joy of conquest, and the glories of Valhalla, where deceased warriors drank mead from the skulls of vanquished foes. And then he sang of the cold and snowy Niffelheim, where in regions of eternal frost the cowardly and guilty dead mourned their weak and wasted lives. In words of terrific force he painted their agony, where Hela, of horrid countenance, reigned supreme; where the palace was Anguish, Famine the board, Delay and Vain Hope the waiters, Precipice the threshold, and Leanness the bed. But in the innermost chamber of this awful home was the abode of Raging Despair; and in the final verse of his terrible ode the scald sang: "Listen to the ceaseless wail, Listen to the frenzied cry Of anguish, horror, and amaze; Would ye know from whom they come, Tell me, warriors, would ye know?" Here he paused, after throwing intense emphasis on the last words, till he had concentrated the attention of all, and the king gazed--absorbed--then he continued: "There wave on wave of bitter woe Overwhelms the parricide."