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Rh “The king’s own physician doth daily visit him,” Maidoch answered, “and the Lady Aastrid hath every healthful food prepared. But oh! my Lord Thorgills, he is old and hath seen many sorrows, but thou surely dost not think—Christ is too merciful to take him from me in this strange land. I should die without him. He is all—all I have, and I should perish of loneliness without him.”

Maidoch’s voice fell in a whispered sob. Thorgills jumped up from the table. He stooped over Maidoch and caught her hand in his strong grasp. “Nay! nay! thou shalt not be alone! I will cherish thee as thy true lord if thou wilt but turn to me.” Maidoch had risen in terror. She drew her hand away and moved swiftly towards the door. As she went blindly into the hall, she fell sobbing into the arms of the gentle Lady Aastrid.

“What is it, child?” the older woman asked. “Hath some one grieved thee? Surely not Thorgills!”

“Nay! nay! dear lady,” Maidoch answered between her sobs; “he is my father’s friend and he hath been most kind, but I would crave leave to go back to my weaving.”

“Go, then, if thou wilt;” and Maidoch went swiftly down the hall. Before she returned to her weaving, she went to her sleeping-room. She closed the door. Then she knelt down, beside the casement, and thinking of the interview with Thorgills, she hid her burning face in her hands. “What shall I do? What