“Aye; and you will not know her!” said Sexberga, clapping her hands and laughing.  “She is a woman grown, as I am, by this time!”

Then was gone my little playfellow, and in her place, in my thoughts, must stand a maiden with eyes of sad reproach that must be ever on me.  And maybe in her heart would be fear of me, and of what I had become, as she was bound to me.

And now Sexberga began to weave fancies of how I should meet this long-lost bride of mine, and I could make no answer to her playful railing, for I saw more clearly than she.  And her mother knew that this must be so, and sent her away on some household errand, and I was glad.

Then she laid her hand on mine, and spoke very kindly to me.

“I fear, Redwald, that there is a strange trial coming for you; but I think that you will face it rightly.  It is likely that you will hardly know Hertha when you see her; yet you are betrothed to her, and that is a thing that cannot be forgotten.”

“She will not know me at all,” I said.

“Women are keen sighted,” the lady answered; “but it is more than likely that she will not.”

Then said I: 

“What if she has no love for me?”

“Or you of her?  But I think that in her hiding she has thought of you ever, and well will it be for you if you come not short of her dream of you.  But you have thought of her not at all.”

“Blame me not, lady,” I said humbly enough, though I thought I deserved blame more than she knew.

“I cannot,” she answered, and then a half smile crossed her fair face; “nor should I have thought it wonderful if some other maiden had taken her place in your heart.  But that would have been ill for three people in the end.”

I sat silent, and maybe I was glad that the glow of the fire was ruddy on my face, for it seemed that she had seen somewhat of my thoughts of late.

“Now you must find Hertha,” she went on, “and then if either of you will be released, I think that Holy Church will not be hard on you, nor keep you bound to each other, for things have turned out ill for such a betrothal.”

“This is a hard case,” I said, “for supposing that one longs for release and the other does not?”

“Why, you cannot be so much as lovers yet!” she said, laughing suddenly.  “Here we speak as if a child’s thoughts were aught.  Now comes into my mind such a plan as is in the old stories.  You shall seek Hertha as Olaf’s kinsman only—­as a kinsman who seeks for you, maybe, not letting her know who you are.  Then may you try to win her love, if you will—­or if you cannot love her, you may so work on her mind that she will not love you, and then all is easy.  For if she will not love you when you would win her, you will not hold her bound.”

“Surely not,” I said.  “This seems a good plan, if only it may be carried out.  But it depends on whether Hertha knows me again.”

“Or the old nurse, Gunnhild,” she answered.  “If she lives yet, you must take her into the plan.”