The stranger might easily have taken the rugged pile itself for a part of the black cliff on which it stood.

No road seemed to lead up to it, no banner floated from its walls, no trumpet startled the sea-birds that lodged amongst its turrets.
Yet the old castle was not the deserted place it looked, for here dwelt Sigurd, the mightiest hero of all that land, brother to Ulf, the king.
Men hated Ulf as much as they loved his brother; for Sigurd, with all his prowess, was just and generous, and lied to no man.
"If Sigurd were but king," said they one to the other, "our land would be the happiest the sun shines upon.

As it is, Ulf makes us wretched.
We had rather be his enemies than his friends." But though they said this one to another, Sigurd listened to none of it, and when they urged him to rebel, he sternly bade them hold their peace.
And he went forth and fought the battles of the king, his brother, and they followed him, wishing only the battle-cry were "Sigurd!" and not "Ulf!" For all this loyalty the king gave his brother little thanks.

Indeed, as victory followed victory, and Sigurd's fame rose higher and higher, Ulf's heart swelled with jealousy, and jealousy presently grew to hate.
For it was not in Ulf's nature to endure that another should be held greater than himself.

So, instead of rewarding his brother for his service, he accused him and degraded him, and made another general in his place.
"Now," said the soldiers, "our chief will surely rebel, and we will follow his lead, and pluck down Ulf from the throne and set up our Sigurd." But Sigurd sternly silenced them, and bade them serve their king as they feared him.