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Rh came to the bower-room where Maidoch sat alone, spinning at her wheel. She rose to greet him, but he seemed scarcely to see her, as he said in a dull monotone:

“Thou and thy thrall maiden shall dwell with the Lady Aastrid, for a space. I must journey afar,—to Rome, to the Holy Land, aye, to the Great Desert, if need be. I must find my king.”

Maidoch could not speak, for the deadly pain that smote her heart at Thorgills’ words; and so firmly rooted in the scald’s mind was the conviction that his wife loved nothing but her own land, that he could not read aright the anguish in her eyes, and the pleading gesture of her hands. Then she bowed her head in token of submission; and Thorgills went on in a grave recital of the preparations he had made for her subsistence during his absence. One conviction was strong in Maidoch’s mind, and kept her lips closed. It was that her husband’s love for his king was too great for any thought of her desolation to detain him. She stood in silent acceptation of Thorgills’ plans, and walked beside him to the door of Lady Aastrid’s home. At the portals Thorgills stood a moment. He lifted Maidoch’s hand to his lips and said sadly and slowly: “My wife, I would I could give thee thy heart’s desire; but first, I must find my king; and if death find me, thou art free, and mayhap thou canst go back to thy own land. God keep thee safe until I return.”