"It is easy to enter
into the sorrowfulness of your heart, youngling, and I think it no dishonor to
your courage that you should mourn your kin with tears; yet I pray you to lay
aside as much grief as you can. Bear in mind that no dungeon is gaping for
you."
She could not speak to him yet, but when he put his hand back to feel of a
strap, she bent and touched the brown fingers gratefully with her lips. The
answer seemed to renew his kindly impulse.
"After all, you should not feel so strange among us," he said lightly. "Do you
know that it was one of your own countrymen who built the Tower? Ivar Wide-
Fathomer he was named, whence it is still called Ivarsdale. He was of the
stock of Lodbrok, they say; and it is said, too, that one of his race is even
now with Canute. Since Alfred, my fathers have had possession of it, but it is
Danish-built, every stone. You must make believe that you are coming home." So
he spun on, carelessly good-humored, as they climbed the wind-ing hill-path.
Across the ditch and through the wide-open gate in the moss-grown palisade,
and they came into a broad grassy space that was more like a lawn than a
court. Ahead of them rose the massive three-storied tower, built of mighty
gray stones without softening wings or adorning spires, beautiful only in its
mantling ivy. From the great door in its side a crowd of serfs came running,
ducking grinning salutations; and they were followed by a half-dozen old
warriors.
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