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Sigurd passed unheeded through the streets, keeping his face hid in his cloak, and avoiding all points where the crowd seemed large or curious.

He was hastening thus stealthily down a by-street which led towards Niflheim, when he suddenly became aware of a small group of men before him, under the shadow of a high wall, in eager talk.

He halted, for, by their eager gestures and cautious looks, he judged them to be desperate men, whom it would be well for him to avoid rather then meet. Withdrawing quickly into a deeper shade, he waited with impatience till their conference should be over.

As he waited he heard them speak.

“By this time,” said one, “he should have learned what is in store.”

“Doubtless,” said another. “Yet I am glad it was no earlier, for it will all be over before he can prevent it.”

“Ulf once dead,” said the first, “Sigurd cannot help being the king, however much he may dislike it.”

“Nay, he dislikes not being king, but he is so foolishly tender about his brother.”

The other laughed.

“There are others, I trust, will not be foolishly tender with his brother this night. At what hour is the deed to be done?”

“By midnight.”

At this Sigurd, who had heard it all, could not refrain from starting where he stood.

The men heard him in an instant, and finding themselves thus discovered, rushed with one accord on the hero.

Before Sigurd could draw his sword or offer any resistance he was overpowered and held fast by his assailants who, for fear he should cry aloud and alarm the town, threw a cloak over his head and led him off quickly to the castle.

Here, when the guards came out and inquired what it all meant, “This man,” they said, “we know to be an enemy of the king’s, who has come disguised to this town to do him some harm; keep him fast till the morning.”

The guard, without so much as uncovering Sigurd’s face, hurried him through the gate, and brought him to a dark dungeon, into which they thrust him, turning the key twice upon him.

Then Sigurd cast himself on the floor in despair.

To find himself thus confined, after all the fatigues he had suffered and all the perils he had escaped, was fearful indeed, the more so because he knew his brother was close at hand, and yet must die with no brotherly hand to help him. For himself he cared nought. The men who had cast him there called themselves his friends, and, as he knew, desired only to keep him fast, believing him to be a stranger who might disclose their plot. When all was over and Ulf dead, they would release him and perchance discover who he was.

Sigurd wished he might die before the morning.

But presently, as he lay, he heard a sound of feet on the pavement without approaching his dungeon.

The door slowly opened and a monk stood before him.

The hope that dawned in Sigurd’s breast as the door opened faded again as a gruff voice without said–

“Do thy work quickly, father. A short shrift is all the villain deserves.”

With that the door closed again, and Sigurd and the monk were left in darkness.

“I am to die, then?” asked the hero of the holy man.

“‘Tis reported,” said the monk, “you seek the king’s life; therefore in the morning you are to die. But,” added he, speaking lower, “you shall not die, my lord.”

Sigurd started, not at the words, but at the voice that uttered them.

“Who art thou?” he whispered.

“One who owes thee his life, and would repay thee, my lord. I am he whom thou sparedst but lately in the wood.”

In the dark Sigurd could not see his face, but he knew he spoke the truth.

“Quick,” said the man, throwing off his gown and hood; “off with thy armour, my lord, and don these. There is no time to spare.”