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Updated: June 18, 2025


There, as one was pulling off her threadbare cloak to make him a pillow, and the other was starting after her cordial, he opened his eyes. "Master!" he muttered. "Master? Have they gone?" In an instant Sister Wynfreda was on her knees beside him. "Is it the English you mean? Did they beset the castle?" Slowly the man's clouded eyes cleared. "The Sisters " he murmured.

The voice of the girl who was following Sister Wynfreda from mint clump to parsley bed, from fennel to rue, was not much louder than the droning of the bees in the lavender.

Sister Wynfreda was no longer listening. She had quitted her hold upon the gate and taken a step forward, straining her eyes. They had not deceived her. Out of a tall mass of golden bloom at the farther end of the lane, an arm clad in brown homespun had tossed itself for one delirious instant.

He is a cowardly fellow, and it is likely that he would have left them there till the English were gone. I kissed Fridtjof's mouth...and...and I laid...my father's cloak...over...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.

Staring before her with unseeing eyes, Sister Wynfreda nodded an absent assent. "To me also it seemed that the Lord had led her to us... I keep in mind how she looked when she came that first morning... a bit of silk was in her hand, which Frode had given her for a present, because a golden apple was wrought upon it.

Under the crumbling arch, relieved against the green of the lane beyond, stood the figure of a slender boy wrapped in a mantle of scarlet that bore a strangely familiar look. His hair fell upon his shoulders in soft wavy locks of raven blackness; but his face was turned away as his hands fumbled at the fastening. Sister Wynfreda rose and took a step forward, staring at him in bewilderment.

For the credit of Danish warriors, it was well that Sister Wynfreda could not see this. Again her own words raised a startling apparition. What had been the Sister's last cry of warning? "It is not their cruelty I fear for you. Child, listen! It is not their blows " Could it be possible that this was what

Because there was nothing else to do, and because the thought of doing this gave her some comfort, Sister Wynfreda complied. Laying her trembling hands upon the bared black head, she raised her despairing face to heaven and prayed with all the earnestness that was hers. Then she stood at the gate in silence and watched the girl set forth.

"Dead At the gate Frode and the boy The raven-starvers cut them down like saplings." "And Randalin?" "I heard her scream as the Englishman seized her Leofwinesson had her round the waist they knocked me on the head, then I I " Again his voice died away. Sister Wynfreda made no attempt to recall him. Mechanically she held his head so that her companion might pour the liquid down his throat.

The bowed head of Sister Wynfreda sank lower, and slowly the heaving of her breast was stilled. In the chapel four feeble old voices raised a chant that trembled and shook like a quivering heart-string. "I beseech thee now, Lord of Heaven, And pray to thee, Best of human-born, That thou pity me, Mighty Lord!

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