the highway, lest thy whole life feel the sting of the poison. My son, a man’s life is sweet and clear, or foul and overcast, according as his heart is lifted up to the heights where hang the white flowers, or is sunk down in the mire where lie the noisome weeds. If thy white blossom dropped too quickly, it might be crushed, but now thou must reach up again and take it in thy own hand and wear it tenderly upon thy heart.”
Thorgills’ face was full of eager hope, that came in his quick words, “My father, thou dost mean—thou dost think I may yet win—that the little Irish maid—?”
“My son,” said Father Meilge, thankful in his heart that the thought of Maidoch had been as a magnet to draw Thorgills out of the snare Thora had spread, “thou and I must hasten back to Nidaros. Earl Fiachtna is ill unto death, and I believe he would die more content if he knew that he was leaving his little maid in the care of a faithful Christian husband.”
