"Master!" he muttered. "Master? Have they gone?"

In an instant Sister Wynfreda was on her knees beside him. "Is it the English
you mean? Did they beset the castle?"

Slowly the man's clouded eyes cleared. "The Sisters--" he murmured. "I had the
intention--to get to you--but I fell--" His words died away in a whisper, and
his eyelids drooped. Sister Sexberga turned again to seek her restorative.
Sister Wynfreda leaned over and shook him.

"Answer me, first. Where is your master? And young Fridtjof? And your
mistress?"

He shrank from her touch with a gasp of pain. "Dead," he muttered. "Dead-- At
the gate-- Frode and the boy-- The raven-starvers cut them down like
saplings."

"And Randalin?"

"I heard her scream as the Englishman seized her--Leofwinesson had her round
the waist--they knocked me on the head, then--I--I--" Again his voice died
away.

Sister Wynfreda made no attempt to recall him. Mechanically she held his head
so that her companion might pour the liquid down his throat. That done, she
brought water and bandages, and stood by, absent-eyed and in silence, while
Sexberga found his wounds and dressed them. It was the older woman who spoke
first.