After a moment Randalin rose and followed, buckling her cloak as she went. “Since I am become this man’s lord, I think it right for me to see how he fares before I leave him,” she explained. Once more she spoke gently, though the fire of her pride had quite dried her tears. “Before you leave him?” The form in the faded robes turned inquiringly toward the erect young figure in its brave scarlet cloak. “What is it you say, my child?” But Randalin was bending low over the green couch. “Do you know who I am?” she was asking urgently of the woodward. “Fix your eyes on me and try to gather together your wits.” Slowly the man’s wandering gaze focussed itself; a silly laugh welled up in his throat. “It would be no strange wonder if I did not,” he chuckled. “Odin has changed you greatly; your face was never so beautiful. But this once you cannot trick me, Fridtjof Frodesson.” There came a time when this mistake was a source of some comfort to Randalin, Frode’s daughter; but now she stirred impatiently. “Look again, and try to command your tongue. Tell me the state of your feelings. Can you live?” The man shook with his foolish laughter. “You cub! Will not even being killed cure you of your tricks? If you who have been in Valhalla do not know what Odin intends about my life, how can I know, who have stayed on earth?” Sister Wynfreda’s hand fell upon the girl’s arm. “Disquiet yourself no further,” she whispered. “It is useless and to no end. If it please the Lord to bless our labors, the wound will soon be healed. Come this way, where he cannot hear our voices, and tell me what moves you to speak of leaving. Is it not your intention to creep in with us?” As she yielded reluctantly to the pressure, Randalin even showed surprise at the question. “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.