"Dead," he muttered. "Dead-- At
the gate-- Frode and the boy-- The raven-starvers cut them down like
saplings."
"And Randalin?"
"I heard her scream as the Englishman seized her--Leofwinesson had her round
the waist--they knocked me on the head, then--I--I--" Again his voice died
away.
Sister Wynfreda made no attempt to recall him. Mechanically she held his head
so that her companion might pour the liquid down his throat. That done, she
brought water and bandages, and stood by, absent-eyed and in silence, while
Sexberga found his wounds and dressed them. It was the older woman who spoke
first.
"The fate of this maiden lies heavy on your mind, beloved," she said tenderly;
"and I would have you know that my heart also is sorrowful. For all that she
is the fruit of darkness, it was permitted by the Lord that Randalin, Frode's
daughter, should be born with a light in her soul. It was in my prayers that
we might be enabled to feed that light as it were a sacred lamp, to the end
that in God's good time the spreading glory of its brightness might deliver
her from the shadows forever."
Staring before her with unseeing eyes, Sister Wynfreda nodded an absent
assent. "To me also it seemed that the Lord had led her to us... I keep in
mind how she looked when she came that first morning... a bit of silk was in
her hand, which Frode had given her for a present, because a golden apple was
wrought upon it.
Pages:
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27