yet ripe to perfect
mellowness. She was but little past the prime of her rich womanhood,
and still bore the traces of a great beauty. She bore in addition, upon
cheek and forehead, the scars of three frightful burns.

"The peace of the grave can never be mine while my heart is open to the
sorrows of others," she answered with sadness. "Sister Sexberga, that
was an English band which passed last night. I made out English words in
their song. I am in utmost fear for the Danes of Avalcomb."

"'They that take the sword shall perish with the sword,'" the old nun
quoted, a little sternly. "An Englishman was despoiled of his lands when
Frode the Dane took Avalcomb. If now Frode's turn has come--"

Her companion made a gesture of entreaty. "It is not for Frode that I
am timorous, dear sister, nor for the boy, Fridtjof; it is for Randalin,
his daughter."

Sister Sexberga was some time silent. When at last she spoke, it was but
to repeat slowly, "Randalin, his daughter. God pity her!"

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