Bagga’s checks were burning now; she was nearly crying.
“I—I did just now,” she confessed. “And it was much worse than—the other. But I’ll never do it again.”
Guest the One-eyed burst out laughing. Even the girl’s mother could not help joining in. And there was not much of anger in the rebuke she gave her daughter.
CHAPTER VII
Night spread its broad, dark wings over the land.
Under the shadow of night the world is changed from what it was while day still reigned. Fear, that the daylight holds in check, is then abroad, and the unseen seems nearer than before. All things are changed, save Love that is unalterable; Love that is constant whether in light or dark.
Guest the One-eyed had long since laid his tired limbs to rest in the hay, the widow’s soul far, far away in the land of dreams, when the outer door of the house opened slowly; only a crack at first, through which the dog silently made its way, followed then by the girl, who stepped with careful, noiseless tread.
Bagga closed the door behind her without a sound, patted the dog, and whispered to it to be silent. And the intelligent beast seemed to understand that this was a business that must be kept secret between it and its mistress.
Off went the pair, in the direction of the stream, the dog hard at Bagga’s heels, and evidently interested in the night’s adventure.
As they neared the flock of sheep, where they lay huddled together for the night, she made the dog lie down, while she called softly, as was her wont, for Ørlygur’s lamb. There was a slight commotion in the flock, and the black-headed lamb came trotting up.