“Why should I, for promise wrung from me through my enemy when _she_ lay near to death, not see her more, whom not to see is worse than death—oh, cruel promise! And what can Penda ask as forfeit should I break my oath—life? Why an he denies me love he may take it, for without Torfrida life were of little worth. Now shall I break that oath though all the world henceforth call me liar and traitor. Alas! I that never broke oath or promise—I who have served my master, and fought against Christ rather than desert my king and so break the oath I swore to him and my father. Alas! that I should have seen the day; it were better to die, and yet will I not die, so long as Torfrida lives, but will even now see her. Come, sword, thou wilt carve a way to men’s hearts, whether thy master be traitor or true.” So taking his claymore[5] in his hand he went out and found Duncan, trusting him with his secret, and Duncan said no word of dispraise, but smiled and said, “May the gods speed thee.” Then Feargus rode out into the night, and entered the forest of Sherwood and, keeping the line of the Trent water, rode northwards till he came to the castle of Newark; here finding a boat, he crossed the river and took his road eastwards, and no man asked him whither he went or whence he came, he being dressed in the garb of a minstrel. And right cunningly he could play when need was, for he loved the harp better than the sword. On he fared until he reached Lincoln or Lindum, wherein dwelt Torfrida. He entered in boldly at the great gate and took his way into the town, mounting the brae on which stood the castle of Sigmund. Walking round the castle walls, at length he found the great garden, and there he placed himself where he might see any that walked therein but might not himself be seen, for he wished that Torfrida should not know of his coming, thinking to content himself by the sight of her and depart. So shortly after the evening meal he saw one walking towards his hiding place: he knew it was Torfrida and his heart leapt. Then he arose among the bushes and saw that no person was with her, it being her custom to walk alone. Long time he stood there, and then the thought arose in him—why should he not speak with her? She seemed sad and heavy-eyed, and never again might he behold her. Then thoughts of his broken oath and dishonoured name held him back once more. Now she turned and gave a little sigh; now her gaze wandered towards the place where he stood, as if her soul knew that one she sighed for was there, though her mind knew it not. That look decided his wavering—how might he withstand those eloquent eyes! Softly he struck a few familiar chords; she started, paused; he continued the air softly, then stepped forth, and in a moment she had thrown herself into his arms, weeping wildly and too glad to speak. At length she said— “Now hasten thee away, for if thou art seen the death of the spy will be thine, and none of thy good deeds shall save thee.”