'What has come to my lad's lady?'
A quick spasm of pain passed over the face she was watching.
'Hush!' the girl said under her breadth. 'I am not that.'
'Then something wants to be set right,' said the old woman quietly.
'What is it, dear? Tell me, and the Lord will shew us how to do.'
'If He cared, he would have hindered,' said Hazel drearily.
'He doesn't hinder, sometimes, to shew us that he cares,' said Gyda. 'You may not question his love, dear; you'll be sure to get wrong if you do.' And then bending nearer, so as to look close in the girl's face, with her little black eyes shining both keen and tender, she repeated, 'My lad's lady, what is it? I am his servant, and so I am her servant.'
If anything could have broken down the fierce self-control in which Hazel had been entrenched for the last ten days, it was perhaps the repetition of those words. But tears were biding their time; none had come, none could come yet. Only her lips trembled.
'Please, please!' she said, raising her hand in mute pleading. Then adding, in a tone that went to Gyda's heart, 'He has doubted my word. There is nothing to be done.'
'My lad? Olaf?'
'Yes.'
'It seems ye've doubted him. Is that it?'