CHAPTER I.
IRENE, EMPRESS OF THE EARTH A gulf of blackness and the curtain lifts again upon a very different Olaf from the young northern lord who parted from Iduna at the place of sacrifice at Aar.
I see myself standing upon a terrace that overlooks a stretch of quiet water, which I now know was the Bosphorus.

Behind me are a great palace and the lights of a vast city; in front, upon the sea and upon the farther shore, are other lights.

The moon shines bright above me, and, having naught else to do, I study my reflection in my own burnished shield.

It shows a man of early middle life; he may be thirty or five-and-thirty years of age; the same Olaf, yet much changed.

For now my frame is tall and well-knit, though still somewhat slender; my face is bronzed by southern suns; I wear a short beard; there is a scar across my cheek, got in some battle; my eyes are quiet, and have lost the first liveliness of youth.