"Sister Sexberga, that was an
English band which passed last night. I made out English words in their song.
I am in utmost fear for the Danes of Avalcomb."
"'They that take the sword shall perish with the sword,'" the old nun quoted,
a little sternly. "An Englishman was despoiled of his lands when Frode the
Dane took Avalcomb. If now Frode's turn has come--"
Her companion made a gesture of entreaty. "It is not for Frode that I am
timorous, dear sister, nor for the boy, Fridtjof; it is for Randalin, his
daughter."
Sister Sexberga was some time silent. When at last she spoke, it was but to
repeat slowly, "Randalin, his daughter. God pity her!"
Sister Wynfreda was no longer listening. She had quitted her hold upon the
gate and taken a step forward, straining her eyes. They had not deceived her.
Out of a tall mass of golden bloom at the farther end of the lane, an arm clad
in brown homespun had tossed itself for one delirious instant. Trailing her
robes over the daisied grass, the nun came upon a wounded man lying face
downward in the tangle.
There was little in that to awaken surprise; it would have been stranger had
warriors passed without leaving some such mute token in their wake. Yet when
the united strength of the four arms had turned the limp weight upon its back,
a cry of astonishment rose from each throat.
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