XXXVIII
“THE LUTE THAT COULD SOFTEN MY VERY WORST PAIN INTO BLISS”
The murder of Father Meilge lay heavily upon the minds of Thorgills and Maidoch. The girl seemed so silent and so sorrowful that Thorgills scarce knew what words to say in his longing to comfort her. One evening the scald walked to the home of Earl Sigvalde. The Lady Aastrid was busy about the household, and Maidoch was alone in the guest-room. She sat with her face turned from the doorway, and was playing softly upon her lute.
Thorgills stood at the portals. He made no sound, and rested a space in thought, watching the girl. She was touching the lute, as if she were confiding to the sensitive instrument the sad memories of the past, and the chilling presentiments of the future that crowded around her. Thorgills longed to enter and kneel by her side, and take in his loving grasp the white hand that caressed the lute-strings. But he feared to arouse her lest she should take from his sight the beautiful picture that feasted his longing eyes.
