Then there came across me a strange feeling that one might hardly call jealousy—­though it was near it—­and I said: 

“Has she seen any other who would make her wish to forget?”

“Truly she has not,” Ailwin laughed; “how should she?”

“I know not where she has been, father,” I said with a lighter heart, although but an hour ago I thought that I should have been glad to hear that it was so.

“Ah—­I forgot,” Ailwin said in some little confusion as I thought, and he was silent.  But now I would say more.

“Well, then, father, both of us are heart whole, as it seems.  But I know not if she would be pleased with me as I am now.”

Ailwin looked up quickly at me, and then said: 

“One cannot tell.  Maybe she thinks the same concerning you and your thought of her.”

Then I told the good man of that plan which the lady of Penhurst had made when we spoke of the same doubt, and he laughed thereat, which did not please me.  So I said: 

“Well, then, let me see her.”

“Not yet,” he said after a little thought.  “This is not the first time that I have gone over this matter.  Gunnhild has spoken with me more than once, and yesterday she gave me a message for you, and I was but to give it if I found that you longed to see Hertha again.”

“What is it, then?”

“She says that the troubles are not over yet.  Cnut will be back shortly, and then you have warriors’ work to do.  When that is done there will be peace, for England or Denmark, or both, will be worn out.  It will not be long ere that is so, she says, and she is very wise.  Then come and find Hertha if you will.  But now there will be less trouble for both if you meet not.”

Then I grew impatient, for I hate concealments of any kind.

“Better break the betrothal at once, then,” I said, “for if I must wait I cannot say that I may not meet with a maiden whom I shall love.”

“Then shall you let me know,” said Ailwin coolly, “and it shall be broken.  Thus will be no sorrow to Hertha.”

“So be it,” said I.  “But I think you are hard on me.”

“No so, my son,” said the good man, “not so.  Redwald and Hertha of today are strangers.  I do not altogether hold with these early betrothals; but what is, must be.  Wait a little, and then when peace comes, and you can dwell, one at Bures and one at Wormingford in the old way—­seeing one another and learning what shall be best for both—­all will be well.  Be content.  Your place and hers lie in ruins.  Why, Redwald, what home have you to give her?”

Now that word of common sense was the best that he could have spoken, for I was waxing angry at being thus played with, as I thought.  But at that moment Olaf and Ottar came in with clang and ring of mail and sword, and so no more was said, and soon Ailwin rose to depart.  But I followed him out, and asked him for the last time: