clasped her hands, as if in prayer. “Holy father, I would gladly serve the Christ all the days of my life; but not in Norway—not in the stranger’s land. If the great king will but give us leave to go back to Ireland, never will I let sunrise or sunset of any day in my life find my lips empty of prayer for him.”
Fiachtna took the girl’s hand tenderly. “It is even as she says, holy father. This poor little bruised heart clings so strongly to our own land, that it will not rest upon any other thought; but there is naught for us to return to. My home is in ashes. My fields are plains of desolation. My sheep and my kine are scattered far and wide. Even the holy Abbey, where the monks taught me my Latin psalms, is in ruins. We have nothing in the world.”
Maidoch shook her head despairingly. Thorgills, watching her, felt a sudden anger rise within him. Why should she grieve so greatly for her native land? Her father said truly there was naught for them to return to, unless—but he banished the jealous suspicion. She was but a child; surely there could be no lover in that Irish land. If there was—Thorgills frowned menacingly.
Father Tuathal, the youngest of the priests, spoke with smiling kindness to Fiachtna. “Sayest thou that thou hast nothing in the world,—thou with thy learning and thy holy faith? Thou hast too the love and care of this little maid. We shall surely find full
