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.