# The North Star/Chapter 26

XXVI “MY SON! MY SON! MY SON!”
In a handsome stone dwelling in the province of Viken, the kingdom of Olaf’s father, lived his mother, Aastrid, and his step-father, Lodin. A young sister, Aastrid, was of the household. Lodin was wealthy and powerful, a great chief, and the head of a number of vassals who were devotedly attached to him. When Olaf landed in the Trondelag and was so enthusiastically received, Lodin sent messages of loyalty to his step-son. So all the earl-folk of Viken, with Lodin at their head, were prepared to swear fealty to King Olaf when he came.
It was a fair spring day when Olaf with his retinue rode up to his mother’s dwelling. The banners floated from the windows, the floors were covered with fresh, pungent fir straw. Rich tapestries hung on the walls, and swords, shields and spears were placed over the doorways. In the banquet-hall, the harpers and fiddlers were filling the room with music.
Aastrid stood at the door. All waited in eagerness to greet the king, and the mother’s heart was full to overflowing. At last the watchers caught sight of the pageant. In a throng of earl-folk, soldiers and ​pages, at their head, was a man so radiantly handsome, of such majestic beauty, that they almost held their breath in awe. Upon a milk-white steed he sat, wearing over his armor of steel and gold a flowing crimson cloak. A helmet with its glittering wings outpoised rested on his long, tawny locks.
Forgetting her place of dignity as lady of the mansion waiting to receive a royal guest, forgetting the crowd, the excitement, the publicity of the pageant, forgetting all things except that this man of such wondrous beauty and valorous renown, was her own, her very own, Aastrid swept down the long stone steps, her rich silken robe floating after her, and the hood blown back from her fair hair. No maiden of sixteen could move with lighter grace than did the mother of that happy monarch watching her with eager, loving eyes. Olaf reined in his horse and sprang to the ground. He folded Aastrid in his arms and rested her head upon his broad shoulder; then stooped and kissed her with utmost tenderness.
“My son! my son! my son!” she sobbed, and out of his full heart he could but find the words, “My mother! my mother! my mother!”
Then a strong wave of sound broke over the throng, as hundreds of voices shouted: “A wassail to King Olaf! A wassail to our own king! We were his father’s vassals, and we are his, in the kingdom of his father. A wassail to the son of Trygge Olafsson!”
​The drinking-horns were brought and the men of Viken pledged their fealty as they were drained.
Then they gathered within the hall, and while King Olaf sat at the high seat at the head of the table, his mother and his sister and his proud step-father near him, they feasted for long, merry hours. Finding so much love and loyalty in the province of Viken, Olaf thought it a most promising field for the beginning of his crusade of Christianity. Day after day, Bishop Sigurd and Father Breasal instructed the people, who accepted the religion of Christ with eagerness. Nearly the entire province of Viken became Christian, and King Olaf was intensely gratified. Encouraged by his success in Viken, the king proceeded to the province of Agder, where his zeal met with a similar return, and after a few months’ sojourn he left nearly all Agder faithful to the Christ.