"Where, then, is the love of my betrothed?"
"I love you none the less, dear, that I cannot go with you."
An agony of grief distorted Olvir's face. He flung himself down before the girl and clasped her feet.
"Come with me,--come with me!" he begged. "Here is only sorrow and parting. The king is iron."
"Yet I am his daughter. There is still hope for us, Olvir. I will plead with my father."
"And if he deny you?"
"God forbid! I can then only return to Chelles."
"To the cloisters! My curse on them! Listen, king's daughter. You are not fated for the nun's veil. That would not fill in fullest measure the spite-cup of the witch's daughter. She will wed you to our girl-faced Count of Metz."
"That is no new tale to me, Olvir; yet I can promise you this much,--I shall never be the bride of another than yourself. If I may not choose the cloister, I will choose that which lies in my bosom."
"You bear my knife?"