approached the gate. Sister Sexberga was very old, much older than her
companion, and her face was a wrinkled parchment whereon Time had written some
terrible lessons.

She said gently, "We are one with the dead, beloved sister. Those who lie
under the chancel lay no safer than we, last night, though the Pagans' passing
tread shook the ground we lay on, and their songs broke our slumbers. Let us
cease not to give thanks to Him who has spread over us the peace of the
grave."

The shadows deepened in the eyes of Sister Wynfreda as she turned them back
toward the lane, for her patience was not 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