..over his...face."
It was useless trying to go on; a deep sob shut off her voice and threatened
to rend her when she tried to hold it back. Sister Wynfreda strove with gentle
arms to draw her down upon her breast.
"Suffer the tears to come, my daughter," she urged her tenderly, "or sooner or
later they must."
Randalin pulled away almost roughly, dashing the drops from her eyes.
"They shall not!" she cried brokenly. "They shall not! Am I a weak-minded
English woman that I should shed tears because my kin are murdered? I will
shed blood to avenge them; that is befitting a Danish girl. I will not weep, -
-as though there were shame to wash out! They died with great glory, like
warriors. I will fix it in my mind that I am a kinswoman of warriors. I will
not weep."
The older woman shrank a little. To ears attuned to the silence of the grave,
such an outburst was little less than terrifying; she was at a loss how to
soothe the girl. To gain a respite, she stole away and renewed the wounded
man's bandages.
After a moment Randalin rose and followed, buckling her cloak as she went.
"Since I am become this man's lord, I think it right for me to see how he
fares before I leave him," she explained. Once more she spoke gently, though
the fire of her pride had quite dried her tears.
"Before you leave him?" The form in the faded robes turned inquiringly toward
the erect young figure in its brave scarlet cloak.
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