the worst it must be sleep. Moreover, am I so happy that I should fear
to die? Quilla cannot read this writing, and therefore I will answer,
No. I am a Christian, but she and those about her, aye, my own children
with them, worship the moon and the host of heaven. I am white-skinned,
they are the hue of copper, though it is true that my little daughter,
Gudruda, whom I named so after my mother, is almost white. There are
secrets in their hearts that I shall never learn and there are secrets
in mine from which they cannot draw the veil because our bloods are
different. Yet God knows, I love them well enough, and most of all that
greatest of women, Quilla.

Oh! the truth is that here on earth there is no happiness for man.

It is because of this rumour of the coming of Kari with his host that I
set myself to this task, that I have long had in my mind, to write down
something of my history, both in England and in this land which, at any
rate for hundreds of years, mine is the first white foot to press. It
seems a foolish thing to do since when I have written who will read, and
what will chance to that which I have written? I shall leave orders that
it be placed beneath my feet in the tomb, but who will ever find that
tomb again? Still I write because something in my heart urges me to the
task.



I return to the far-off days. Our boat being full with merry hearts we
set sail before a faint wind for Hastings beach. As yet there was little
light and much fog, still the landward breeze was enough to draw us
forward. Then of a sudden we heard sounds as of men talking upon ships
and the clank of spars and blocks. Presently came a puff of air lifting