“I am his lady, and your servant,” said Torfrida, bowing.
“Child! child! Bow not to me. Talk not of servants to a wretched slave, who only longs to crawl into some hole and die, forgetting all she was and all she had.”
And the great Countess reeled with weariness and woe, and fell upon Torfrida’s neck.
A tall veiled lady next her helped to support her; and between them they almost carried her through the hall, and into Torfrida’s best guest-chamber.
And there they gave her wine, and comforted her, and let her weep awhile in peace.
The second lady had unveiled herself, displaying a beauty which was still brilliant, in spite of sorrow, hunger, the stains of travel, and more than forty years of life.
“She must be Gunhilda,” guessed Torfrida to herself, and not amiss.
She offered Gyda a bath, which she accepted eagerly, like a true Dane.
“I have not washed for weeks. Not since we sat starving on the Flat-Holme there, in the Severn sea. I have become as foul as my own fortunes: and why not? It is all of a piece. Why should not beggars beg unwashed?”
But when Torfrida offered Gunhilda the bath she declined.