And I think that there is no wonder in this, for these ladies were ever most kind to me, and long were the days since I had spoken with any in such a home as this.  Nor, as I have said, should I be blamed for forgetting old days at Bures in this wise.

Now, soon after Christmas, when there came one of those days when men must needs keep under cover, I sat by the fire trimming arrows, and presently it chanced that the lady and I were alone in the hall, for the maidens were preparing the supper elsewhere, and the housecarles had not yet come in from cattle yard and sheep pens.  And we talked quietly of this and that, as her wheel hummed and clicked cheerfully the while, and at last some word of mine led her to say: 

“I have heard little of your own folk, Redwald.  I do not know even their names.”

“After my father was slain, I had none left but my mother,” I said.  “We are distant kinsfolk of Ulfkytel, our earl, but we have no near kin.”

“Was your mother’s name Hertha?” she said, naturally enough, for I had never named her, always speaking, as one will, of her as my mother only.

I looked up wondering, for I could not think how she knew that name, or indeed any other than that of Siric, my father, and maybe Thorgeir, my grandfather, for Olaf had told them at first, when they took charge of me, to what family I had belonged, and how I was akin to him.

“That was not my mother’s name,” I answered.  “It was that of a playfellow of mine.  How could you know it?”

“One will go back in thought and word to old times when one is sick,” the lady said, smiling.  “This was a name often on your lips as I sat by you in your sickness.  It was ever ‘Mother’ and ‘Hertha’.  Olaf said that you had no sisters, or I should have thought you called to one of them, maybe.”

Then I remembered at last; and for a little while I sat silent, and my heart was sorely troubled.  And the trouble was because my growing thought of Sexberga taught me, all in a flash as it were, when the remembrance of Hertha was brought thus clearly back to me, what tie bound me to Bures and to this more than playmate of mine.  In truth, I think that had it not been for this, until I had been back in Bures again I should not have recalled it.

Now I was glad that I had said nought that might have made my liking for the maiden plain to her, and so things would be the easier.  Yet for a few moments the thought of saying nought of the old betrothal came to me—­of letting it remain forgotten.  And then that seemed to me to be unworthy of a true man.  It was done, and might not be undone by my will alone.  I would even speak plainly of the matter; and at least I had not gone so far in any way that the lady could blame me for silence.  So I hardened my heart—­for indeed the trouble seemed great—­and spoke quickly.

“Hertha was nearer to me than sister, for we were betrothed when I was but thirteen and she eleven.”