to thee of the little Irish maid. Scarce a word can I get from her lips, scarce a look from her blue eyes. When I come near, she draws her veil around her and she seems as far away from me as if she stood upon some high mountain in her own land, instead of a few feet from me in thy home.”
Lady Aastrid laughed gently at Thorgills’ distressed face. “Thou art a Norseman, and they were ever bold in their wooing. Thou hast followed the bravest viking that ever ventured on the high tides. Thou art Olaf Tryggevesson’s closest friend, and thou art frighted by a little maid. It were well for thee, my friend. When a maiden hath such power over thee, it were worth much striving to gain her. Thou wouldst ask me how to woo the maid. Remember thou art venturing into a province where none hath trodden before. Thou wouldst wake up a woman’s soul in a child. It may be that thou canst; and then thy life song will be sweeter than any saga thou hast ever sung. But listen, Thorgills. The child’s soul now is full of love for her father and of longing for her Irish home. The father hath not many days in this world; and her home she will never see again. See now! In the darkness to come, it may be thy voice, thy hand, thy tender thought for her, will bring another sunlight. But thou must be very patient and ever very gentle. This little flower was so harshly transplanted, so rudely torn from the green land where her heart still lives, to our stern Northland.”
