# The North Star/Chapter 18

XVIII “THE CHAMPION OF THE CROSS”
The late spring in the far North is full of a wonderful beauty, that seems more bewitching because eager eyes have watched through the long, white wintry hours for its gracious coming. The spring morning in the year 995, when the “Alruna” landed on Moster Island, in the Hordaland, Olaf Tryggevesson thought no earthly country could be so fair as Norway. The white mists like soft, filmy veils floated away from the face of rock and fen and blue-waved fiord. The tender verdure made inviting the harsh outline of the shore, while the fleecy clouds glided over the silky sails that fluttered in the strong breeze. The ships landed at the Island, and Thore Klakka went ashore to prepare the king’s tent. Olaf did not desire to tarry long upon the Island after Bishop Sigurd had said mass.
As the king stood at the side of the vessel, his heart beat high. He had reached Norway, his own! His own, at last! Moving backwards and forwards busy and important, treacherous Thore could not fathom the deep emotion that filled the great soul of the king. Olaf saw before him his home, his ​kingdom, and his whole life seemed passing in review before him.
“Norraway! Norraway!” he murmured, in a lover-like tone, sweeping with flashing eyes the familiar, fascinating picture of sea and shore, rock, fen, mountain and fiord.
Olaf was attired in full coat of mail of linked steel and gold, his scarlet, fur-edged cloak and burnished golden helmet with glittering outspread wings, catching the rays of the rising sun,—a dazzling figure of majestic beauty, as he stood waiting to touch his native shore. As the preparations of his tent were concluded, the king took a silken standard in his hands. Upon the crimson folds was an embroidered cross of gold, while the flagstaff was surmounted by the same sacred emblem, in burnished metal. Beside the king stood Bishop Sigurd in the robes of his office, wearing the mitre upon his head, and bearing in his hand the vessel of holy water. Father Meilge bore the Bishop’s crosier, while Father Reachta carried the thurifer with its smoking, pungent incense. With them, bearing the mass books, were Father Tuathal and Father Breasal.
The crew stood waiting the command of the king to go ashore. Thorgills walked beside Fiachtna and Maidoch, watching the old man’s earnest, prayerful gaze upon the cross, and the devout peace in the young girl’s beautiful eyes.
​Full, full was the great king’s heart as he stood that memorable spring morning, that hailed him master of his own. Deep down in his earnest soul was a humble thankfulness, a sincere consecration of his life-work as a Christian sovereign, that took from his hour of triumph all thought of unworthy self-seeking. God had brought him to his own land that he might bring his land to the one true God. It seemed as if he might almost leap ashore in his eagerness to plant the sacred sign on the soil of Norway—the sign of his country’s consecration to Christ. As Olaf stood, filled with fervent hopes and holy aims, the vision that so often came to him swept down from the cloudless, arching heavens. The sky was filled with the faces and forms of the old, angry, defiant gods, the thunder of Thor’s hammer, the clashing of the shield of Odin, the taunts of the victorious heroes, and the jeers of the Valkyrias in Valhalla, as they scorned the pale, silent Nazarene. Troubled was the soul of the king.
“I am Thy champion, O Christ!” he cried, as if he truly saw his Lord.
“I am Thy champion! They shall not defy thee! Norraway shall be all Thy own, the land of Thy Cross. Taunt not the Christ, O Thor! He hath a true champion. For the blows of thy mighty gauntlet I will give the sweet touch of Christ’s gospel. Now will I accept thy challenge, Thor!”
As the king ceased speaking, Thorgills swept ​the strings of his harp, and sang the saga for his master.
On the shore of Norraway Shines the clear star of my life; And my hand, O Norraway! Grasps the sword of sacred strife. I am Thine, Christ Divine! Champion Sworn of Christ the White.
I have held my sword on high, Sworn to combat all for Thee, By this Sign, O Norraway! All my land the Christ shall see. By this Sign, Christ Divine! Have I sworn to win Thy fight.
Christ eternal! deathless King! And death-conquering Nazarene! Thor and Odin I defy, For Thee, Christ! God! Galilean! To Thy Sign, Christ Divine! All my Norraway shall kneel.
Norraway! my Norraway! Sworn my sword for Christ and thee, On the blessed altar-stone, Pledged I life and all of me. By this Sign, Christ Divine! Norraway Thy power shall feel.
The order to land rang out. Oarsmen laid their oars in the lockers. The helmsman held his wheel at rest. Olaf sprang upon the shore, and with the sense ​of his vision still strong upon him he planted the cross upon the ground and shouted in a trumpet tone: “My Norraway shall be the land of the Cross!” Bishop Sigurd sprinkled the ground with holy water as they walked along, and the incense rose with the chanting of the psalms as they entered the tent where mass was to be celebrated.
Maidoch remembered the words of that maiden of Israel, who answered in full faith, in the face of an awful, mysterious destiny, “Behold the handmaid of the Lord. Be it done unto me according to Thy word,” and the little Irish maid bowed humbly down repeating over and again, like a farewell to her dearest hope, “Thy will, not mine, O Lord! be done.”