If he
had not told his name, however, Lage would not
have recognized him. That a year could work
so great a change in a god, he would hardly
have believed, if his own eyes had not testified
to it. Asathor's cheeks were pale and bloodless,
the lustre of his eye more than half
quenched, and his gray hair hung in disorder
down over his forehead.
"Methinks thou lookest rather poorly to-day,"
said Lage.
"It is only those cursed church-bells," answered
the god; "they leave me no rest day or night."
"Aha," thought Lage, "if the king's bells are
mightier than thou, then there is still hope of
safety for my daughter."
"Where is Brynhild, thy daughter?" asked Asathor.
"I know not where she is," answered the
father; and straightway he turned his eyes
toward the golden cross that shone over the
valley from Saint Olaf's steeple, and he called
aloud on the White Christ's name. Then the
god gave a fearful roar, fell on the ground,
writhed and foamed and vanished into the
mountain. In the next moment Lage heard a
hoarse voice crying from within, "I shall return,
Lage Ulfson, when thou shalt least expect me!"
Lage Ulfson then set to work clearing a way
through the forest; and when that was done, he
called all his household together, and told them
of the power of Christ the White. Not long
after he took his sons and his daughter, and
hastened with them southward, until he found
King Olaf. And, so the Saga relates, they all
fell down on their knees before him, prayed for
his forgiveness, and received baptism from the
king's own bishop.
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