"Ah, my child, they were scattered far over the earth," said Deva, mournfully. "Some went to a place called Ierné,[1] some to a country over the water called—called—my old memory won't help me now, but it sounded like 'Morick.'"
[1] Ireland.
"Was it Armorica, mother?" said Malachi.
"Why, that was the name, to be sure. Now how didst thou know that? They've called me witch-wife many a time, because they said I knew more than human beings ought to know, but my knowledge is ignorance to what thine is."
"It is nothing so very wonderful, mother. Those same strangers I told thee of often told me where their people went to, and many a time they would have liked to have crossed the sea again to meet those of their kith and kin that were scattered abroad."
"Well, well. And maybe thou hast met with those that really were my blood. Ah, they would not be proud of poor old Deva, the slave daughter of Helva, a slave too. How things do change, to be sure!"
"But, mother," put in Malachi, who thought he saw signs in her of going off into a reverie again, "what about this house? Thou hast not told us yet who built it."
"And how do I know who built it?" said the old woman, testily.
"Why, thou saidest just now thy forefathers built it," said Wulfstan.
"Then if I told him, why does he ask me again?" said Deva, wearily. "I shall go and see how the wounded eorldoman is."