342 
LETTERS FROM HIGH LATITUDES. 
the quaint proportions of the huddled ancient Nidaros,— 
and the old marauding days, with their shadowy line of 
grand old pirate kings, rose up with welcome vividness 
before my mind. 
What picture shall I try to conjure from the past, to 
live in your fancy, as it does in mine ? 
Let the setting be these very hills,—flooded by this 
same cold, steely sunshine. In the midst stands a stal¬ 
wart form, in quaint but regal attire. Hot blood deepens 
the colour of his sun-bronzed cheek; an iron purpose 
gleams in his earnest eyes, like the flash of a drawn 
sword; a circlet of gold binds the massive brow, and 
from beneath it stream to below his waist thick masses 
of hair, of that dusky red which glows like the heart of 
a furnace in the sunlight, but deepens earth-brown in 
the shadow. By his side stands a fair woman; her 
demure and heavy-lidded eyes are seldom lifted from 
the earth, which yet they seem to scorn; but the king’s 
eyes rest on her, and many looks are turned towards 
him. A multitude is present, moved by one great event, 
swayed by a thousand passions;—some with garrulous 
throats full of base adulation and an unworthy joy;— 
some—pale, self-scorning, with averted looks, and hands 
