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LETTERS FROM HIGH LATITUDES. 
Olaf, cut off from succour, stands almost alone upon the 
“ Serpent's ” deck, made slippery by his people’s blood. 
The Jarl had laid out boats to intercept all who might 
escape from the ship; but escape is not in the King’s 
thoughts. He casts one look around him, glances at 
his sword—-broken like Einar’s bow,—draws a deep 
breath, and, holding his shield above his head, springs 
overboard. A shout—a rush! who shall first grasp 
that noble prisoner ? Back, slaves! the shield that 
has brought him scathless through a hundred fights, 
shall yet shelter him from dishonour. 
Countless hands are stretched to snatch him back 
to worthless life, but the shield alone floats on the 
swirl of the wave ;—King Olaf has sunk beneath it. 
Perhaps you have already had enough of my Saga 
lore,—but with that grey cathedral full in sight, I 
cannot but dedicate a few lines to another Olaf, king and 
warrior like the last, but to whom after times have 
accorded a yet higher title. 
Saint Olaf’s—Saint Olave, as we call him— 
early history savours little of the odour of sanctity, 
but has rather that “ ancient and fish-like smell ” 
which characterised the doings of the Vikings, his 
