One would have supposed that he was now ready for a decisive blow. But he hesitated again, and seemed half inclined to retrace his steps. There was always something lacking in the completeness of his preparations, and another delay was always necessary. He is, indeed, an interesting figure, this wily and ambitious intriguer, who has the courage to plot treason, nay takes pleasure in perfecting all the details of his plot, but always pauses before taking the irretrievable step. Like Schiller's Wallenstein, he fondles the thought, plays with it, utters it cautiously and hypothetically, but leaves himself always, as he supposes, a path of retreat, until his own acts spin a web about him and bar him the road back to safety. Year by year he compromises himself more irretrievably; his treasonable letters fall into the hands of the king, and when, after twenty-two years of covert treason, he drifts into open rebellion, it is because there is apparently no other alternative left to him. [Illustration: A STORM ON THE FJORD.] In the meanwhile, the king left no means untried to keep the earl to his allegiance. In 1233 he summoned him to an assembly of notables in Bergen (_Rigsmöde_), at which the archbishop, the bishops, and a great number of secular dignitaries were present. The king here called his father-in-law formally to account for his actions, and the liegemen rose, one after the other, and cited proofs of the earl's disloyalty. When the turn came to Skule to defend himself, he began in this wise: "I know a ditty: 'The eagle sat on a stone,' and I also know another which runs like this: 'The eagle sat on a stone,' and a lot more which all run the same way. Thus it is here to-day. Every one talks in his own way, but they all finish up with the same ditty, viz.: to bring accusations against me."