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Updated: June 21, 2025
"What with Teboen always seething ill-smelling herbs and Tata, I pray you to tell who has gifted you with such a monster?" Waving the ring where the light might catch the serpents' eyes, Randalin pursed her lips with so much mystery that her friend was tempted to catch the hand and hold it prisoner while she examined the ornament.
It was an interposition of his good angel that at this moment provided a diversion. Randalin broke from her silence with an exclamation: "Thorkel! Yonder!"
Between her entreaties for mercy, the little maid was shrieking with pain; now, at sight of Randalin, she redoubled her struggles so that the belt by which her mistress grasped her burst and left her free to dart forward and fling herself behind the Danish girl.
Randalin did not see when he passed her, for her eyes were on the King as he stood looking after his foster-brother. "Ah, God, what a terrible world hast Thou made!" she murmured, as she put up her hands to ease the swelling agony in her throat. "No longer will I try to live in it. I will go to the Sisters and remain with them always."
The flame that flared up showed her arm to be in the grasp of the Lord of Ivarsdale. "You mad young one!" he gasped, as he wrenched the blade from her hold. Voices rose in angry questioning, but Randalin was too fear-benumbed to understand what they said. Norman's keen eyes were turned upon her, and recognition was dawning in their gaze.
Standing there, watching the young noble advance, it seemed to Randalin that there was not room between her heart-beats for her breathing. How soon would he look up and know her? How would his face change when he did? His color now was a match for the warriors' cloaks, and there was none of his usual ease in his manner when at last he bowed before the King.
"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.
Dearwyn shook her head. "My lady wishes to try on you the wreath she has made. She thinks your dark locks will set it off better than our light ones." "I was on my way thither," Randalin said, quickening her steps.
"It seems that the world has begun to fall to pieces everywhere," Randalin said wearily. The momentary forgetfulness which the happenings around her had created was beginning to give way before the weight in her breast. She drew herself up listlessly. "Is it of any use to remain up here, Dearwyn?" But Dearwyn's grasp had tightened. "See! the King is beginning to speak."
To-day, a fortnight later, Randalin repeated the comment with a despondent addition: "It is the waste-place of ruins, and ruins have come to dwell in it. I can believe that it is no lie about the Fates to call them women, when they put like with like in so housewifely a manner."
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