Father Meilge’s penetrating eyes had noted the quick parting of Thorgills from Thora. It boded no good for the scald to be in such company, and Father Meilge’s voice was full of gentle earnestness.
“My son, was not yon woman Thora of Rimul?”
“It was, my father.” Then looking straight in the priest’s anxious face, Thorgills answered the question in the clear, dark eyes. “It was but a chance I met her. I was walking alone and she came up to speak to me. I have never met her before this day.”
“And thou wilt never meet her again, of thy own will, my son?” Thorgills was silent, thinking of his promise to Thora. Father Meilge laid his hand on the scald’s shoulder. “My son, I had thought—nay I had hoped—that thou wouldst reach up to take the fair white blossom that bloomed first in my own land, and shield it from blight on thy strong, true heart.”
Thorgills looked up eagerly. “Nay, my father, the white flower was far beyond my reach. I strove for it, but it would never bend down that I might take it.”
“Thou must strive again;” and Father Meilge gave him a rare smile that seemed to illumine his face, which was full of loving care of this soul, struggling in the snare set by the woman of Rimul. “See now, Thorgills, my son. Thou wouldst reach up for the white flower, and because it is high above thee and must be striven for, thou must not lose heart and stoop down to pick up the poisoned weed, flung upon
