HARALD HAARFAGER. 
343 
that twitch instinctively at their idle daggers, then drop 
hopeless—harmless at their sides. 
The king is Harald Haarfager, “ of the fair hair;” 
the woman is proud and beautiful Gyda, whose former 
scorn for him, in the days when he was nothing but the 
petty chief of a few barren mountains, provoked that 
strange wild vow of his, “ That he would never clip or 
comb his locks till he could woo her as sole king of 
Norway.” 
Among the crowd are those who have bartered, for 
ease, and wealth, and empty titles born of the king’s 
breath—their ancient Udal rights, their Bonder privi¬ 
leges ; others have sunk their proud hearts to bear the 
yoke of the stronger hand, yet gaze with yearning looks 
on the misty horizon that opens between the hills. A 
dark speck mars that shadowy line. Thought follows 
across the space. It is a ship. Its sides are long, and 
black, and low; but high in front rises the prow, 
fashioned into the semblance of a gigantic golden dragon, 
against whose gleaming breast the divided waters 
angrily flash and gurgle. Along the top sides of the 
deck are hung a row of shining shields, in alternate 
breadths of red and white, like the variegated scales of 
