“They were Fridtjof’s.” She spoke his name very softly. “I found them hanging on the chamber wall. In the night the men began to entertain themselves with singing, and it could be heard that they were getting drunk. It had been in my mind that I would stay where I was until they forced the door; then, because I would like it better to die than to marry any of them, I would throw myself out of the window, and the stones below would cause my death. But now it came to me that if I could dress so that they would not notice me, there were many good chances that I might slip past them and get out through the postern. I waited till they were all still, and then I crept into the women’s room, and found the bondmaids huddled in their beds. They got afraid at the sight of me, for they thought I was Fridtjof’s ghost; and they dared not move. So I had to go down alone.” She shuddered in spite of herself. “Never did I think that darkness could be so unpleasant,—when one is listening for sounds and fears to put out a hand lest it touch something alive! But I got past the door and through the guard-room, where the Englishmen were snoring so loud that they would not have heard if I had stamped. In a niche in the wall outside I found Almstein the steward hiding, full of fear. I made him follow me out of the postern and around to the gate where...my father...and...Fridtjof...” Her voice broke, but she struggled on. “The English dogs had left them there... My father’s face was...wounded...and the moon made his hair all silver round it, so that the blood looked to be black blots... And Fridtjof’s sword was in his hand... Always he had wished to go into battle, though he was no more than fourteen winters old... There was a smile on his lips... I made Almstein dig two graves. 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. “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. I will not weep,—as though there were shame to wash out! They died with great glory, like warriors. I will fix it in my mind that I am a kinswoman of warriors. I will not weep.” The older woman shrank a little. To ears attuned to the silence of the grave, such an outburst was little less than terrifying; she was at a loss how to soothe the girl. To gain a respite, she stole away and renewed the wounded man’s bandages.