He held out his broad hand, and for a moment I hesitated about taking it.  He bore his father’s name, but in a flash it came to me that I was wrong.  We were both children when the ill deed was wrought, and I was no heathen to hold a blood feud against all the family of the wrongdoer.  He did not even know that one of us lived, and, as the king had told me, I knew that he was prepared to make amends.

So I took his hand frankly, and he had not noticed the moment’s slowness or, if he did, took it for the passing of vexation from my mind.

“You will laugh at me again,” he said, “but now I am in hot water in all sooth.  The lady will not speak to me at all.”

I did laugh.  I sat down on the edge of the table and tried to stop it, but his red face was so rueful that I could not, and at last he had to smile also.

“Why, what have you done?” I asked.  “Now it is my turn to know reasons why.  Here is a new offence to be seen into.”

“I only told her that I had spoken to you on the subject, and was going to talk to the ealdorman, her father, if she would not save me the trouble by telling me herself all about it.”

“And then?”

“She got up and went away, tossing her head, without a word.  So I had a talk with the ealdorman, and learnt all; but after that I tried to see her, and that black-haired Welsh maiden of hers told me that she would not see me.”

“It seems to me that you have had a bad day,” I said.  “But what does it matter?  You have done what seemed right, and if it is taken in the wrong way you cannot help it.”

“It does matter,” he said.  “If she is wroth with me, I don’t mind telling you that I am fit to hang myself.  Could you not set things right for me, somehow?  You are an old friend.”

“No, hardly; for I am not in favour there just now.”

“Well, I shall go and try to get round the Welsh girl to speak for me.”

Now, that was a servant I had never heard of, and I thought I knew all the household.  So I could not tell him if that would be of use, and he left me in some sort of desperation to try what he could.  He was very much in love.

Next day he came back beaming.  Somehow the Welshwoman had managed things for him, and all was well again.  I had my own thought that Elfrida was by no means unwilling to meet him halfway, but I did not say so.  I think I had fairly got over my feelings by this time, but I must say that I felt a sort of half jealousy about it.  But the more I came to look on the South Saxon’s round face, and to think of him as Elfrida’s favoured lover, the less I felt it.  It became a jest to watch the going of the affair, and I was not the only one who found it so in a very short time.

Erpwald made no secret of his devotion.  He minded me of a great faithful stupid dog, whose trust was boundless and whose love was worth having.  One could lead him anywhere, but he was true Sussex—­he would not be driven an inch.