“Hall the Wealthy has been dead two seasons.”
But Erling exclaimed again: “Gudbrand’s daughter! Of whom you could not speak bitter words enough—even though you knew they would reach her ear!”
“I spoke unfairly,” Sigurd said, flushing. “She sent me a token that I did not receive—I cannot tell you more. I do not ask now that she should stoop to see me herself, but if she would send some woman who has her confidence—if I could speak my message to her with the certainty that it would come truthfully to Astrid’s ear——” His dark face flushed redder and redder in the moonlight, and he did not turn away to hide it. “It is the greatest service you could render me, kinsman,” he finished.
Stifling an impatient breath, Erling flung the end of his cloak over his shoulder and turned.
“The sooner the better, then—before they are gone to bed. Wait in the herb-garden, yonder. It is the spot where you will be the least liable to interruption.”
Netted around with bare bushes and strewn underfoot with shriveled leaves, the herb-garden lay in desolation. Yet even here the slender sides of branches showed the swelling hopes of springtime. A thought came to Sigurd of the budding trees at home, and the harvest he would never reap; then he thrust it from him angrily, and strode up and down the pathway, waiting.
Three times the wind rustling through the bushes tricked him. But at last there was the ring of spurs on gravel, and Erling came out of the shadows, followed by a slender figure wrapped from head to foot in a hooded cloak of blue.
Trying to guess which one of Astrid’s women the silken folds hid, Sigurd stood gazing at her silently. She halted before him without speaking; but Erling said shortly:
“You have little enough time. I was only able to manage it because Gudbrand is still swilling drink in the hall. The instant I see his torch-bearers, I shall call you.”
He disappeared again into the gloom that lay between them and the gate.