“Woe!” cried Sir Roel, “our poor maid hanged! shame and sorrow upon us!”
“Lord God,” said Gonde, “you smite us hard indeed.” And she wept.
But Magtelt could neither weep nor speak from the bitterness of the grief which laid hold upon her.
And she looked at her brother fixedly, and his sunken face blenched, and from the wounds against his eyes dropped tears of blood, and his body was shaken with spasms.
And the Silent sank into a seat, weeping dully like a wounded lion.
“Ha,” quoth Sir Roel, hiding his face, “this is the first man of the house of Heurne that has found need to sit weeping. Shame upon us, and without redress, for there is a spell woven.”
And the Silent stuffed his fingers into the wound in his neck, pressing out the blood; but he felt nothing of the pain.
“Toon,” said the lady Gonde, “do not dirty your wound with your fingers in this wise; you will poison it, my son.”
But the Silent did not seem to hear.
“Toon,” said the lady Gonde, “do not do it; I, your mother, order you. Let me wash away this blood and dress with ointment these ugly sores.”