“There, at least, we agree,” broke in Wulf.
“Better than aught else on the earth,” repeated Godwin; “but, by the Holy Blood and by St. Peter, at whose shrine we are, I would kill her with my own hand before her lips kissed the book of the false prophet.”
“Or any of his followers,” muttered Wulf to himself, but fortunately, perhaps, too low for either of his companions to hear. Aloud he said, “You understand, Rosamund, you must be careful, for Godwin ever keeps his word, and that would be but a poor end for so much birth and beauty and wisdom.”
“Oh, cease mocking, Wulf,” she answered, laying her hand lightly on the tunic that hid his shirt of mail. “Cease mocking, and pray St. Chad, the builder of this church, that no such dreadful choice may ever be forced upon you, or me, or your beloved brother—who, indeed, in such a case would do right to slay me.”
“Well, if it were,” answered Wulf, and his fair face flushed as he spoke, “I trust that we should know how to meet it. After all, is it so very hard to choose between death and duty?”
“I know not,” she replied; “but oft-times sacrifice seems easy when seen from far away; also, things may be lost that are more prized than life.”
“What things? Do you mean place, or wealth, or—love?”
“Tell me,” said Rosamund, changing her tone, “what is that boat rowing round the river’s mouth? A while ago it hung upon its oars as though those within it watched us.”
“Fisher-folk,” answered Wulf carelessly. “I saw their nets.”
“Yes; but beneath them something gleamed bright, like swords.”