of a warrior like Frode! I knew that the fetters of Thorkel's craftiness would
pinch me some-where--" He broke off and flung the goblet from him, burying his
hands in his yellow hair. "How I hate them!" he breathed between his teeth.
"How I hate their smooth-tongued Jarl, and all their treacherous hides! Oh,
for the day when I no longer need their aid; when I am free to strike!" The
joy of his face was a terrible thing to hold in one's memory.

Perhaps he saw its awfulness reflected in the wide blue eyes, for he checked
himself abruptly. When he spoke again, he had himself well in hand.

"I act like a fool to let you hear my ravings. Poor cub! it is likely you will
call me a worse name when you find out how I am hindered! Yet go on and tell
me the rest. How comes it that you escaped unharmed?"

With Gram's experience to follow, it was not hard to frame that answer. "They
knocked me on the head with a spear-butt and left me for dead. When I got my
senses again, I found my way to the nuns of St. Mildred's; and they gave me
food, and I rode hither."

"It is the Troll's luck! I--yet, go on. The day will come! Did they further
harm within the castle? Have you women-kin?"

Randalin hesitated. Would it not be safer if she could deny altogether the
existence of a daughter of Frode? But no, that was not possible, in the face
of what Norman might reveal. She began very, very carefully: "It happened that
my mother died before we came to Avalcomb; and my father had but one daughter.
She was called Randalin. I did not see what became of her, for I was outside;
but I think that she is dead. A--her thrall-woman told me that Leofwinesson
pursued her to a chamber in the wall. And and because she could not escape
from him--she--she threw herself from the window, and the stones below caused