“Though he hath wronged me and driven me forth,” said Edwy, “yet do I love him; but he hath broken oath with Feargus, and hath come to break that law which is held most sacred amongst soldiers.”
Much more did he say but to no purpose, and they departed for home, and Torfrida was sullen and would not speak more to Feargus that day, but wept all the way. Before they had parted Edwy took Feargus aside, and said he: “Farewell, and keep and mark well my counsel—thou must fly with my sister, and as she will not listen to our rede thou must take her without her will.” And so on the ride homewards Feargus thought of the counsel Edwy had given.
Three nights afterwards, having got the Pictish tire-woman who waited upon Torfrida to keep her mistress up late, he arose at midnight, and taking four fleet horses and many other things, put an old cloak about his byrny and went and knocked softly at the gate. Then the tire-woman, who had been in the train of Torfrida’s mother, opened the door and let him in, and he found Torfrida sitting in the hall in the firelight, and when she saw him she was angered.
“Now what bringeth thee here, thou tiresome fellow? Enough have I not seen of thee this day, that thou shouldst come in at midnight forsooth? Get thee hence or thou wilt have my name in the mouths of all the town’s wives.”
“Torfrida, there is no rest for me here, and there is no gain to any by thy staying. Though the ways to Alban are long and full of dangers of beasts and robbers and tempests and cold and hunger and weariness, yet not more merciless or fierce are they than Osbert and thy father; for the danger of them is open and declared, but the king and his thane work ever in secret. My beasts are without; let us fly to-night.”
“That will I never, and full often have I told thee so,” said she. “Get thee gone, I tell thee.”
“Speak not so unkindly, Torfrida.”
“Then get thee gone.”
“Thou canst not love me, Torfrida.”