Why, Olaf, suppose you took a Fijian when the war was on and set him suddenly down in London with autos rushing past, sirens blowing, Archies popping, a dozen enemy planes dropping bombs, and the searchlights shooting all over the sky--wouldn't he think he was among thirty-third degree devils in some exclusive circle of hell?
Sure he would! And yet everything he saw would be natural--just as natural as all this is, once we get the answer to it.

Not that we're Fijians, of course, but the principle is the same." The Norseman considered this; nodded gravely.
"_Ja!_" he answered at last.

"And at least we can fight.

That is why I have turned to Thor of the battles, _Ja!_ And _one_ have I hope in for mine Helma--the white maiden.

Since I have turned to the old gods it has been made clear to me that I shall slay Lugur and that the _Heks_, the evil witch Yolara, shall also die.