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Martha was stooping at the hearth, blowing and puffing at the fire under her coffee-pot, when the Sons of the Vikings knocked at the door. "What cost thou want, lad?" she asked, gruffly; "thou hast gone astray surely, and I'll show thee the way home." "I am Wolf-in-the-Temple," began Frithjof, thrusting out his chest, and raising his head proudly. "Dear me, you don't say so!" exclaimed Martha.

And Frithjof Haldgren, white of face and lips now instead of fiery red, stood silent and trembling while Chet fastened a jewel upon his grimy tattered blouse; then retired to his chair as if beaten back by the rolling waves of sound. But to Chet, as he watched the man go, came a quick sense of disappointment.

They gave each other tremendously bloody surnames, in the style of the Sagas names that reeked with gore and heroism. Hakon himself assumed the pleasing appellation "Skull-splitter," and his classmate Frithjof Ronning was dubbed Vargr-i-Veum, which means Wolf-in-the-Temple.

A holm-gang or duel was then arranged; that is, a ring was marked out with stones; the combatants stepped within it, and he who could drive his antagonist outside of the stone ring was declared to be the victor. Frithjof, who felt that he had a better claim to be named Skull-Splitter than Hakon, was the first to accept the challenge; but after a terrible combat was forced to bite the dust.

Norway is a small and a new country, inordinately, perhaps, but justly and gracefully proud of those an Ole Bull, a Frithjof Nansen, an Edvard Grieg who spread through the world evidences of its spiritual life.

During the week she read only the newspaper, but on Sunday, and in the long evenings of winter, she read a good deal; read a few things over a great many times. She knew long portions of the "Frithjof Saga" by heart, and, like most Swedes who read at all, she was fond of Longfellow's verse, the ballads and the "Golden Legend" and "The Spanish Student."

And if Chet had not been out of breath from the shouted questions, he would surely have been left breathless by their amazing answer. "I thought you knew," said the girl as the din of shrillness subsided. There seemed to Chet a note of hurt in her voice. "I thought you knew, that you had come here knowing. I am Anita, and Frithjof is my brother Frithjof Haldgren!

They say they will kill us both; throw us to the fires!" "Wait!" almost shouted Chet to make himself heard above the din of shrieking voices. "I've got to know! Who are you? Who is Frithjof? How did you get here? Where are you from? Tell me quickly! It may give me something to go on; it may mean a chance for delay."

"They think you are Frithjof," she explained. "You talked with them?" asked Chet incredulously. "But certainly; have I not been here for five years? They have their language but enough of that now. They are angry. They sent Frithjof away; they tell me now that he escaped; they think you are he that you have changed your appearance with magic that the ship they saw was summoned by your magic.

Back of those who harangued the crowd the terraces built themselves up to a pyramid against the rock wall; and on either side, opening upon the platform base, was a doorway of noble proportions, whose metal doors of burnished reds and browns were closed. "The sacred room," whispered Anita, "beyond those doors. Frithjof has closed them. He is there. I know it I know it!"