myself, that I myself have given thee fatal fancies that have wrecked thy happiness. I thought of him first—his welfare—and I have wounded thee out of my great love for the king.”
“Nay! nay!” the girl protested,—“nor thou—nor he, my king—nor any one, save only my own foolish heart must be blamed. But, dear Lady Aastrid,” drawing her friend closer, “before I go—for I know surely that I am going—tell me of a truth—have I ever in unmaidenly manner showed forth my great love for the king? It so held my heart, and all its weight turned back upon me, and having naught else to rest upon, it is crushing out my poor life.”
“Freda!” the Lady Aastrid bent over and placed the golden head upon her shoulder, “if thou hadst been my own maid, I could not have better loved thy modesty in all that regards this unhappy king. For of a truth hath he hewn out a rough path for himself.”
The girl covered her face. “Now, little Freda, that is all past. Thou must hasten presently to health. I need thee to come to me again. The little Irish maid now hath only thought for her dying father. I am a sad and bitter woman, and I need thy sweet face.”
Freda shook her head. “I pray the White Christ for pardon, if I have given too great a place to an unhallowed love. If I live I will strive to atone for
