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. Trailing her robes over the daisied grass, the nun came upon a wounded man lying face downward in the tangle. There was little in that to awaken surprise; it would have been stranger had warriors passed without leaving some such mute token in their wake. Yet when the united strength of the four arms had turned the limp weight upon its back, a cry of astonishment rose from each throat. “The woodward of Avalcomb!” “The hand of the Lord hath fallen!” After a moment the younger woman said in a trembling voice, “The whisper in my heart spoke truly. Dearest sister, put your arm under here, and we will get him to his feet and bring him in, and he will tell us what has happened. See! he is shaking off his swoon. After he has swallowed some of your wine, he will be able to speak and tell us.” It was muscle-breaking work for women’s backs, for though he tried instinctively to obey their directions, the man was scarcely conscious; his arms were like lead yokes upon his supporters’ shoulders. Just within the gate their strength gave out, and they were forced to put him down among the spicy herbs. 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. “I had the intention—to get to you—but I fell—” His words died away in a whisper, and his eyelids drooped. Sister Sexberga turned again to seek her restorative. Sister Wynfreda leaned over and shook him. “Answer me, first. Where is your master? And young Fridtjof? And your mistress?” He shrank from her touch with a gasp of pain. “Dead,” he muttered. “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. That done, she brought water and bandages, and stood by, absent-eyed and in silence, while Sexberga found his wounds and dressed them. It was the older woman who spoke first.