Presently there would be Saxon lords over the manors as Ina found men to hold them, but there would be no change beyond that.  Freeman should be freeman, and thrall thrall, as before, each in his old holding undisturbed, with equal laws for Saxon and Briton alike.

Now, one day when I came to the house of the king at Petherton on some affairs I needed his word concerning, presently there came a message to me that Ethelburga the queen would speak with me, and, somewhat wondering, I was taken to her bower, and found her waiting for me.

“Oswald,” she said, after a few words of greeting, “there is one who wronged you once, and has come to ask for your forgiveness.  What answer shall I give?”

“Lady,” I said, “I can remember none who need forgiveness from me now.  Those who wrought ill against Owen have it already, or are gone.  I have no foes, so far as I know, myself, and truly no wrongs unforgiven.”

“Nay, but there is this one.”

“Why then, my Queen, that one must needs be forgiven, seeing that I know not of wrong to me.”

I laughed a little, thinking of some fault of a servant, or of a man of the guard, of which she had heard.  But she went to a settle hard by and swept aside a kerchief which lay on it as if by chance, and under it were two war arrows.  And I knew them at once for those which had been shot into our window at Norton and had vanished.

Now I will say that the sight of these brought back at once some of the old feeling against those who, like Tregoz, had sought Owen’s life and mine, and my face must needs show it.

“Ay,” the queen said, seeing that, “these are indeed a token that forgiveness is needed.”

Then I remembered that there was but one who could come here with these arrows, though how she had them I could not do more than guess.  It could be none other than Mara, the daughter of Dunwal.

Then suddenly, from among the ladies at the end of the room, one who was dressed in black rose up and came toward me, and she was none other than Mara herself, thin and pale indeed, and with the pride gone from her dark face.  Her voice was very low as she spoke to me, and her bright black eyes were dim with tears.

“I do not ask you to forgive my uncle, or indeed my father—­for what they planned and well-nigh wrought is past forgiveness,” she said, “Forget those things if it be possible, but forgive my part in them.”

“I have done that long ago, lady,” I said in all truth.

I knew that she must have been made use of by the men in some ways, but I did not think at all that she had wished ill as they wished it, since I knew that Morfed had trained the Welsh girl to the deed at Glastonbury.

“Ay,” she said sadly.  “But forgetfulness is not forgiveness.  You do not know how I carried messages between my father and uncle, when one was in bondage and the other in hiding, so that their plans were laid through me.  I am guilty with them.  Therefore I would hear you say at least that you will try to forgive before I pass from the world into the cloister where I may pray for them, and for you also, if I may.”