“I heard you just now tell her that it could not be that you could think of her—­as things are.”

Then I remembered what my last words had been, and I saw that they might easily have misled him after all the trouble he seemed to have had.

“You heard too much or too little,” said I, being minded to laugh, though the matter was over serious to him to let me do so.  “I spoke of my own troubles, which were the less because my fortunes prevent my thinking of any maiden, seeing that I have no home to give a wife when I find her.  You were wrong in thinking that I spoke of Sexberga—­I spoke, as you might have known, of the one whom I have lost.”

“How should I know that?  I know nought of your affairs.”

Then thought I to myself that I would punish Sexberga, for she had tortured this honest lover of hers over much.

“I will not tell you that tale.  Ask Sexberga, who has known it from the first.”

Then I was sorry for what I had said, for he flushed darkly.

“I have been made a fool of,” he said.

“Nay; but you should have been more trustful,” said I.  “Now, were I in your place, I would go home to Dallington and bide there for a week, and the maiden will be pleased enough to see you when you return.  And if she tries to make you jealous again, seem to mind it not.  There is little sport in it for her then.”

“I suppose there would not be,” said he, and he began to look more cheerful.

“Now,” said I, “I was betrothed long ago—­the war time has come between me and her who should have been my wife.  I have hunted for her and cannot find her—­and that is all.  Now you understand.  It was Sexberga who cheered me in my search, and so I spoke to her thereof.”

“I should not have doubted you,” he said frankly; “forgive me.”

I held out my hand and he took it.  There was nought but friendliness in his grasp, and I could not blame him.  I blamed Sexberga wholly.

Then he laughed a little ruefully.

“I am a fool with a sword,” he said.  “Will you teach me somewhat?  I think I was mad when I used those evil words to you.”

“I have forgotten them,” I answered; and so I had.  One does not think much of what a man says in utmost rage as his.  “Come, let us go back to the village.”

So we went back together, but Sexberga had gone on her way homeward without us.  Whereat Eldred was not sorry, and said that he was going back to his own place.

“You will see me no more for a few days,” he said.  “I think your plan is good.”

“Mind this,” I answered, “I never tried it.”

“Lookers-on see best,” he answered, laughing bitterly.  “But think no more of my anger with yourself, I pray you.”

I told him that I would not, and so we parted good friends enough, though I feared that he might take this matter to heart in such wise that he would have some ill moments presently.  There was little spring in his walk as he took the path towards Dallington.