When the bride was so long in coming, everybody looked at King Olaf to see if he were uneasy. But the King always showed an undisturbed face. 'If it be the will of God,' the King said, 'that I shall possess this fair woman, she will assuredly come.' And the King waited, whilst the grass fell for the scythe, and the cornflowers blossomed in the rye. The King still waited when the flax was pulled up, and the hops ripened on the poles. He was still waiting, when the bramble blackened on the mountain-side, and the nip reddened on the naked branch of the hawthorn. * * * * * Hjalte had spent the whole summer at Kungahälla waiting for the marriage. No one awaited the arrival of the Princess more eagerly than he did. He assuredly awaited her with greater longing and anxiety than even King Olaf himself. Hjalte no longer felt at his ease with the warriors in the King's Hall. But lower down the river there was a landing-stage where the women of Kungahälla were wont to assemble to see the last of their husbands and sons, when they sailed for distant lands. Here they were also in the habit of gathering during the summer, to watch for the vessels coming up the river, and to weep over those who had departed. To that bridge Hjalte wended his way every day. He liked best to be amongst those who longed and sorrowed. Never had any of the women who sat waiting at Weeping Bridge gazed down the river with more anxious look than did Hjalte the Bard. No one looked more eagerly at every approaching sail. Sometimes Hjalte stole away to the Marie Church. He never prayed for anything for himself. He only came to remind the Saints about this marriage, which must come to pass, which God Himself had willed. Most of all Hjalte liked to speak with King Olaf Haraldsson alone. It was his greatest happiness to sit and tell him of every word that had fallen from the lips of the King's daughter. He described her every feature. 'King Olaf,' he said to him, 'pray to God that she may come to thee. Every day I see thee warring against ancient heathendom which hides like an owl in the darkness of the forest, and in the mountain-clefts. But the falcon, King Olaf, will never be able to overcome the owl. Only a dove can do that, only a dove.' The Bard asked the King whether it was not his desire to vanquish all his enemies. Was it not his intention to be alone master in the land? But in that he would never succeed. He would never succeed until he had won the crown which Hjalte had chosen for him, a crown so resplendent with brightness and glory that everyone must bow before him who owned it.