"What is it you say, my
child?"
But Randalin was bending low over the green couch. "Do you know who I am?" she
was asking urgently of the woodward. "Fix your eyes on me and try to gather
together your wits."
Slowly the man's wandering gaze focussed itself; a silly laugh welled up in
his throat. "It would be no strange wonder if I did not," he chuckled. "Odin
has changed you greatly; your face was never so beautiful. But this once you
cannot trick me, Fridtjof Frodesson."
There came a time when this mistake was a source of some comfort to Randalin,
Frode's daughter; but now she stirred impatiently.
"Look again, and try to command your tongue. Tell me the state of your
feelings. Can you live?"
The man shook with his foolish laughter. "You cub! Will not even being killed
cure you of your tricks? If you who have been in Valhalla do not know what
Odin intends about my life, how can I know, who have stayed on earth?"
Sister Wynfreda's hand fell upon the girl's arm. "Disquiet yourself no
further," she whispered. "It is useless and to no end. If it please the Lord
to bless our labors, the wound will soon be healed. Come this way, where he
cannot hear our voices, and tell me what moves you to speak of leaving. Is it
not your intention to creep in with us?"
As she yielded reluctantly to the pressure, Randalin even showed surprise at
the question.
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