“Forgive me,” I said hastily; “I know not your name.  That is what I ever called you to myself when I had to think of you in ordering matters.”

“Why ’Sexberga’?” she said, looking out seawards.

“Truly I thought you like a lady of that name whom I knew.  But now the likeness is gone,” I said.

“Maybe I ought to be proud thereof,” she said coldly enough.

“I will not say that,” I answered.  “Let me know your name that I may remember it.”

“My name is Uldra,” she said, without looking at me, and flushing a little, and then busying herself with the kitten’s ears.

“That is a Norse name, lady,” said I.

“Aye—­and a heathen one.  But it is the best I have.”

Then I said, feeling that I could not say aright what I would: 

“Lady Uldra, I have to thank you for saving my life today.  Yours was a brave deed.”

She shivered a little, at the thought of what she had done, as I think, for the heat of anger had gone.

“I am glad I was of use,” she answered.  “What are we to do when we come to land?”

“I will take you and the sisters to the great nunnery that good St. Wilfrith founded.  There you will be welcomed.”

So I said, but as I looked at her I thought what a prison the nunnery would be to such a maiden as this.  Yet it was all that could be done.

“That will be peaceful,” she said, but the tears seemed close at hand.

Now one of the men spoke to the other, looking back over his shoulder at him, and then when he was answered he turned to me.

“Master,” he said, “tide serves ill for Selsea, and it will be easy for us to go straight up the haven to Bosham.  The flood tide is strong in with us.  May we do so?”

“Is there any nunnery there?” I asked.

“Why, yes, master—­a little one.”

There too was Wulfnoth’s great house, where I should be welcome, as I knew.  So I asked the sisters if this would suit them.

“One place is as another to us,” they replied.

So we went on up the haven, and it was a long pull, so that it was late in the afternoon when we came in sight of the town.

Now I had said no more to Uldra about ourselves—­save for a few words concerning sea and tides and the like—­but had tried to cheer her, and myself also, by speaking of how Cnut would treat the queen—­namely, that it was most likely to be in high honour, lest the duke should fall on him.

But as we sighted our journey’s end, I bethought myself.

“Lady,” I said, “is there aught that I can do for you in sending messages to your folk?  There will be chapmen and the like going Londonwards shortly, when the siege is over.”

“I have no friends there,” she said.

“You shall bid me do what you will for you when I am free to go to our king again,” said I.  “There will be some who would know where you are and how you fare.”