"The story of the White Christ?" said Wulnoth. "Oh, Wyborga, I have heard that tale, but it seems to me an idle saga and fit for nithings."
"Wulnoth," said Wyborga gravely, "there was one in yonder camp of murderers who was not a nithing, and yet who believed in that tale."
"The Saxon King!" he said. "Ah, Wyborga, I dare not ask thee how thou dost know that, for thou knowest so many things, thou woman of mystery. But this I say—that King was a brave man, and they who put him to shame are cowards even though they are brave in the war game."
"Tell me how he died, Wulnoth," said Wyborga. "Tell me all." And he obeyed, while Wyborga listened with bent head and with many a sigh.
"So does the Lord desire of His people," she said when he finished, "and so does Edmund gain a better crown than the golden one of earth."
"I understand not your words," Wulnoth made answer. "They are still dark with mystery—all the world is a puzzle to me now, and where to seek for Guthred the Prince I know not. Cannot you speak clearly to me, Wyborga?"
"Edgiva spoke clearly, Wulnoth, but you could not understand her tale."
"But that was of the White Christ," he cried. "Does everything refer to Him?" And Wyborga said—
"Everything is to Him."
Then there was silence for a space, and Wulnoth spoke again and asked of Edgiva; and Wyborga made reply and inquired whether he would like to see her.