But all things have an end—in this world at least—and so it was with the life and repentance of king Olave the Second; he died without the drinking-cup he had regretted so deeply, and before he had time to frame a decent apology to Odin for venturing into Valhalla without one. There was a world of business now to be done at the palace of Sandaal: a dead king to be buried, and two living kings to be crowned; for such was the will of the lamented Olave, that both his sons should succeed him. They were princes of very different characters, yet their father, it should seem, loved them equally, as he divided his dominions very fairly between them, to the no small disgust of the elder prince, Frotho, who, like the imperial Octavius, some years before, could not bear a divided throne. This worthy in character resembled, in no slight degree, his excellent father, of dozy memory, for he loved to drink much and fight little,—more especially as his younger brother Harold had a decided vocation for the latter employment, and none at all for the former: to him, therefore, he left the charge of the glory of the Danish crown, while he, for the present, contented himself with drinking to his successes. This good understanding, however, between the princes could not last for ever. Frotho was, after all, only half a drunkard, and therefore extremely sulky in his cups—more especially when his queen Helga seated herself at his elbow to twit his courage with the heroic deeds of his brother. Queen consorts should not meddle with politics, they never do anything but mischief—and so it proved in this instance; for Frotho grew absolutely delirious, kept himself entirely sober for three whole days, buckled on his wooden target, put himself at the head of his troops, and, swearing to be revenged upon his brother, marched on an expedition to Jutland. The expedition neither answered his intentions nor expectations; the men of Jutland were too many for king Frotho, for, headed by Feggo, (the murderous uncle of the philosophic Hamlet, whose father was prince only of this part of Denmark,) they drove Frotho “home without boots, and in foul weather too,” as Glendwr did, long afterwards, king Harry Bolingbroke. Frotho could not stomach this affront—the beating was hard of digestion: his subjects made mouths at him too, and mimicked a race whenever he appeared in public. So he sent his brother, king Harold, who was a fighter to the back-bone, to chastise the Jutlanders, which when he had done most effectually, Frotho grew more angry still; he detested his brother, dreaded his popularity, feared his wisdom, and quivered at his anger,—so he began to consider seriously how he might cleverly and quietly put him out of the way.