Philammon grasped it, and then covering his face with his hands, burst into tears.
‘You did right. You are a brave boy. If you had died, no man need have been ashamed to die your death.’
‘You were there, then?’ sobbed Philammon.
‘We were.’
‘And what is more,’ said Smid, as the poor boy writhed at the admission, ‘we were mightily minded, some of us, to have leapt down to you and cut you a passage out. One man, at least, whom I know of, felt his old blood as hot for the minute as a four-year-old’s. The foul curs! And to hoot her, after all! Oh that I may have one good hour’s hewing at them before I die!’
‘And you shall!’ said Wulf. ‘Boy, you wish to get this sister of yours into your power?’
‘It is hopeless—hopeless! She will never leave her—the Amal.’
‘Are you so sure of that?’
‘She told me so with her own lips not ten minutes ago. That was she who went out as you entered!’
A curse of astonishment and regret burst from Smid....