should be lonely
indeed, and that it were honour enough for me to care for and guard
Gerda through all my life as the one thing that I could care for. I
think that it would have been strange if this had not come to me in
these long hours of companionship with her, seeing what she was in
all respects, whether as she stood here on the windy shore with her
fair hair tossed by the sea breeze, fair and full of health and
life, or as I had seen her on the decks of the doomed ship, brave
and steadfast, with the cruel terror of the pirates on her.

But here and now I could say nothing of this that was so near to
me. I had naught to offer her but my poor presence, no future, and
no home. And maybe there were long days of companionship and
service due from me, and I would not that there should be the least
thing said to mar the ease with which that went so far. One can be
wise at times, when the comfort of another is in the balance, as it
were.

Moreover, how could I tell that some of her longing for home might
not be also from pain of separation? And that was now no happy
thought to me. Well, I must wait and find out all that. If it was
in my power that longing should be stilled, and then I might know
the best and worst of all that might lie before me.

Thoughts like these do not grow up all at once as I have set them
down. At this time they seemed to gather from the many times they
had passed through my mind, and rank themselves against my words.
So it came to pass that I was silent, and was glad presently that
so I had been.

"Look!" said Gerda suddenly, pointing out to the far eastward,
"yonder are sails on the skyline."

Far off they were, but plain enough under the morning sun. Two
white specks on the blue circle's edge, sails of ships which sailed
westward, as if beating to windward in long boards against the
northeast breeze. They might be Norse vessels from Dublin on their
way homewards, though it had been more easy for such to wait a
slant from the south or west.

"They cannot be the ships which have caused the firing of the
beacons," I said. "That trouble was to the westward."

I half turned to look at the hills and their fires, and saw our
comrades coming to us. Dalfin was ahead, and plainly excited.

"Malcolm," he cried, so soon as he was within hearing, "I cannot
hold back if there is fighting in our land. Will you two take the
boat there and set me across to the mainland?"

I suppose that he had talked