The final grain that had turned the balance, it appears, was a half-waking morning dream, or almost ocular vision he had of his glorious cousin Olaf Tryggveson, who severely admonished, exhorted, and encouraged him; and disappeared grandly, just in the instant of Olaf's awakening; so that Olaf almost fancied he had seen the very figure of him, as it melted into air.

"Let us on, let us on!" thought Olaf always after that.

He left his son, not in Russia, but in Sweden with the Queen, who proved very good and carefully helpful in wise ways to him:--in Russia Olaf had now nothing more to do but give his grateful adieus, and get ready.
His march towards Sweden, and from that towards Norway and the passes of the mountains, down Vaerdal, towards Stickelstad, and the crisis that awaited, is beautifully depicted by Snorro.

It has, all of it, the description (and we see clearly, the fact itself had), a kind of pathetic grandeur, simplicity, and rude nobleness; something Epic or Homeric, without the metre or the singing of Homer, but with all the sincerity, rugged truth to nature, and much more of piety, devoutness, reverence for what is forever High in this Universe, than meets us in those old Greek Ballad-mongers.

Singularly visual all of it, too, brought home in every particular to one's imagination, so that it stands out almost as a thing one actually saw.
Olaf had about three thousand men with him; gathered mostly as he fared along through Norway.