"By no means. My errand hither was only to ask for bread. I
thought it unadvisable to venture into the castle kitchen, yet it is needful
that I keep up my strength. I go direct to the Danish camp to get justice from
King Canute."
The nun reached out and caught the gay cloak, gasping. "The Danish camp? You
speak in a raving fit! Better you thrust yourself into a den of ravenous
beasts. You know not what you say."
Offense stiffened the figure under the cloak. "It is you who do not know. Now,
as always, you think about Canute what lying English mouths have told of him.
I know him from my father's lips. No man on the Island is so true as he, or so
generous to those who ask of him. Time and again have I heard my father bid
Fridtjof to imitate him. He is the highest-minded man in the world." Her voice
as she ended was a stone wall of defiance. Sister Wynfreda made a desperate
dash down another road.
"My daughter, I entreat that you will not despise my offer. The yoke is not so
heavy here. Here is no strict convent rule; how could there be? We are but a
handful of feeble old women left living after those who led us are gone, to
the end that heathen fog smother not utterly the light which once was so
bright. In truth, most dear child, you would have no hard lot among us. A few
hours' work in the garden,--surely that is a pleasure, watching the fair green
things spring and thrive under your care.
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