I went slowly, and by the longer way, for I had much to think of, and I cared not just yet for the light talk of the happy people in the Penhurst hall.  And so I came into the way that leads across the woodland through Ashburnham and so by the upper hammer ponds to Penhurst, and when I was about a mile from the hall I met Uldra coming from a side track.

“Why, thane,” she said in her bright way, “is aught amiss?”

“I have lost my kinsman, lady,” I said, “and I have none other left me.  Therefore I am sad enough.  But these things must be, and the shadow of parting will pass presently.”

I got off my horse and walked beside her, and I was glad that I had met her first of all.  She had been to some sick thrall, and was now returning.

“Partings are hard,” she said, “but one may always hope to meet again.”

Then I said, speaking my thoughts: 

“I must go west into Wessex with the earl’s ships, and I have more partings to come therefore.”

She made no answer at once, and I thought that none was needed; but when she spoke again her voice was graver than before.

“You would be near our king if possible by doing so?”

“That is my thought,” I answered.  “If I wait in this pleasant place I may be far from him when the day comes that I should stand at his side again.”

“You have six weeks—­not so much by two days—­yet,” she said thoughtfully.  “It is not long.  Then you will be fighting once more.”

“I hope so—­and not in vain at last,” I answered.  “All our land longs for peace.”

“Aye, and they tell me that you have a search to make,” she said, looking away across the woodlands that lay down the valley to our right.  “I fear there will be sorrow if—­if you fall.”

“Aye, I have a search that has been made hard for me,” I said somewhat bitterly.  “Truly I had not thought of falling; but it is in my mind that little grief will be in that quarter if I do so.  Those who might have ended the search in an hour or two have kept their charge more deeply hidden than ever from me.”

“Is that the maiden’s doing, think you?” she said, hesitating a little, for the question was not an easy one for her to put, maybe.  But it was like her to make excuse for others.

“I cannot tell,” said I, “but I think it likely.  We were but children, and she fears me now.”

“That is to be seen,” she said; “but I hope that you will find her.  What shall you do if—­if she loves you not now?”

“I would let her go free, surely.”

“Even if you found you loved her yet?”

“Aye.  I would not hold her bound were she unwilling.”

“But if it were the other way—­if she would wed you willingly, and you—­well, were unwilling?”

“I would keep troth,” said I; “she should not know it.”

She laughed softly and answered: 

“You could not hide that from her.”